


We Shall Go Always A Little Further

by 07krysalis



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Before Rainbow, First Love, GSG 9, Heavy Terrorist Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Mission Before Heated Session, Not Explicit!, SAS, Spetsnaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07krysalis/pseuds/07krysalis
Summary: Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, across that angry or that glimmering sea.We'll go, together. Rifles charged and aimed.And we'll try to understand how we feel.[Before Rainbow]





	1. Aching Fancy

The tiles mirror my movements meticulously, yet only succeed in manifesting a travesty. A fluttering, undulating, gasping travesty. Rigid droplets flow out the shower head, neither hot nor cold, blatantly bland and pale, and they plunge down onto the roughened surface of my skin. Its like rain with its uncaring drabness soaking the fabric of my flesh. I drown in the moment, at the moment, for a moment. Right now I'm incapable of doing anything else, but stand underneath the pouring that hums and seeps in. Nearly a quarter of an hour has passed, and I've gotten so accustomed to the consistent stream of negligent drops that a change in its temperature's bound to be overlooked.  
  
The shower's static noise shushes the groans seething at my lips. At each frantic tug of my hand, I feel a surging warmth, building and intensifying itself by entangling, entwining, twisting frenetically the strands of desire and dissatisfaction swirling inside my stomach--I shudder from the original heat, quiver at the self-inflicted sensations. I slam my left hand on the tiles conveying a distorted image of me to maintain my balance. Lowered as if ashamed is my head that cannot endure the weight of my drenched hair.  
  
I shut my eyes as I want of deliverance. Pleasure is too much effort and pain is always around the corner.  
  
Pooling at my feet, bubbles and foam glittering soft as they reflect the sharp glare of the communal showers' ceiling lamps. The water, like a liquid pen, traces the curves on my shoulder, the muscles of my forearms, and the stiffness of my elbows. It falls all over me, lets itself be coerced by gravity--ripples take form and soon sink into the drain, in a manner vulnerable and useless.  
  
I commence my own destruction as I think of him, whilst bathed in longing and shivering sin. My hands roam and grasp and pull and stroke, unsatisfied and dazed, I feel my blood travel miles as my heart thrums a harmony deafeningly apparent. It reverberates underneath bones of ivory, desiring the image of his scintillating entirety to be stripped of its shine. I want him under. I want him all over.

As I surrender to the self-willed trance, my eyelids will blink shut.  
  
And I will see. How he'll be as lonely as I am, as scarred and battered. He will act timid and graceful outside the killing zone, the battlefield; he will perform bravely and outstandingly at the forefront of a terrorist hunt. His face will ceaselessly emanate a welcoming air, no matter how much rejection he's seen; he will glow mildly, organic and inextinguishable. He will laugh quietly and lift his hand to hide half the radiance of his smile; the muted colors of his cheeks will be splashed in red with every emotion he will come to feel. His fingertips will remain rose despite every impulsive pull of the rifle's trigger. His lips, the same sugary color.  
  
I will pretend to be his friend. And in the field, he will entrust his life to me. He will grow dependent, and I will respond by feeding him more encouraging words. I'll make him believe he's a wildflower in the midst of the desiccated desert, and I'll swear to protect him from storms that may never come at all. He and I, I'll explain grimly, are rooted in an abandoned land. No one will care once we evaporate, once we ebb; we live on as nobodies, and die out as statistics. Next, I will tell him, in a tender voice, he is a fallen fruit, and corpse flies encircle him--in each passing hour, a part of his essence shall be siphoned--afraid of being sucked dry, he will come to me. I will shelter him, cultivate him, embrace him, carefully. With the gaze of a madman.  
  
I'll finally come to his room one uneventful evening after a successful mission, or a grueling training session. I will knock gently on the wood that separated him from his caring associates. The moon's faint glow as it permeates through the keyhole will resemble the silver of my eyes. And he will notice it, how brilliant my gaze, how so much like the evening, though he will keep quiet about.

Because he will be afraid of making me feel uncomfortable. He will have held me dear by then, thought of me as a significant someone. I will smile in order to torment him some more. He will admire my facade, and he will want to dig deeper. Behind the endearing grin, the sympathetic bearing.

He will let me into his cramped room; I will be witness to his long metal desk littered with reports, various tools and half-read books. There will be a mug at the corner of the table giving off elaborate lines of smoke into the air. The scent of coffee will linger for a while, but he'll forget all about drinking it. He will forget about the cruelty that brews in every heart; he will blind himself with misplaced trust. I will take advantage, and pull him close. Make him think it was just as he wanted.  
  
Will such an evening unfold anytime soon?  
  
"Sorry, we shouldn't. I don't feel that way, Porter. You're a close friend, I do  _trust_ you, but--nothing more."  
  
Mere centimeters away from his mouth, I will pull away; my lips will tremble for a moment from the warmth of his voice. However, he will have taken a cautious step backwards whilst making an expression still unbeknownst to me.

Later, I will decipher that it's of disgust and pity.

There will be no trace of loneliness in his features, unlike in my frowns and chuckles plagued with obvious solitude. He'll survive, unlike me who was already contaminated inside out with the misery and fun of conflict; torn apart by the curiosity for the high-risk, and the trauma from carnage just five feet away. Will he notice beforehand that I was a mere mosaic, a wholeness made up of fragments, a lie adapted from the stupefaction of the battlefield? Will he discern, so easily, my hostility towards commitment, and by then comprehend that I was a maniac dripping with sweat and frustration? Will he perceive the slightest quiver of my index finger craving to touch the trigger that, in this particular case, was him? Will he think of me as a disease out to vandalize his purity? Will he see the gritting dog teeth beneath my feral glare? And as I push myself against him, consuming safe distance, will he be able to feel my rabid heart?

He will utter words he does not mean to say. "Stop, don't do this," he'll mouth, taking another step away from me. The window behind him whose curtains will oscillate from the pervasive breeze will slightly brush against his cotton white shirt. His exposed arms will be suffused with the moon's borrowed light. He will look gentle, confused and uneasy. His nervous motions will appear reverent, and I will not respect it. "Please just leave, Porter. "

"Why are you always like this, Chandar? It's all in my head, and yet, I can never seem to control you."

Then he will lean against the crevice of the low, cracked open window. His arms to his side, his legs relaxed. He will tilt his head in the most enticing manner as he decides to watch the field draped in evening beyond the polished glass. I will sense the need to enrapture his neck. His figure will conceal the outside's natural luminescence, creating an eclipse that will hide all my expressions. I will stand in the middle of the room, with his unmade bunk to my right and his stack of dirty clothes in the far left corner distracting my peripheral vision.  
  
"My room isn't this filthy. Do you think  _I'm_ like you, Porter?" a mocking tone will resound as a half grin flashes, tainted with bits of light. "What a mess you've done here. Bloody hell, you've never been in my room, have you?" His voice will penetrate my ears, disconcert my well-being, poison my equilibrium. The walls will flay, and then seem to cave in, but only to me. He will be safe in that small curtained alcove; he will be watching me suffer the consequences of my bathroom reverie. Then he will open his mouth to surmise, this time in a blurred tone, and his voice will be mixed with my own. "You don't know what I'm like, let alone what I am to you. Why are you blaming  _me_ , mate?"  
  
I will walk towards him, approach him steadily and speak of nothing as I close the distance once more. He will materialize more clearly, and he will seem even more intoxicating. In a mockery of determination, I will cup his cheek. His head will follow through with the instructions of my freezing yet docile hand. His head craned to the side will let stray strands of hair fall casually on his eyes, only to be caught by his long lashes. Our breaths will converge into a change in temperature.

No matter how much I subvert my strength, control my movements, calm my tone, he will always look at me with the irises of a prey, pleading to be spared. He will always want mercy, not pleasure, from me. And I'll barely have any words to contend with. Words will float, laced with an incalculable amount of fear and coveting. "Hush, love, please."  
  
"Love." Then a breathy chuckle. "I reckon Chandar would love to hear you say that to him in person." His lips will gleam and sway, as a tone covered in a thin cellophane of derision escapes them.  
  
I'll slant my head, before pressing my mouth against his, transferring waves of heat, silencing him definitely. His eyes will blink the shallow kiss away. His lashes and my cheek will make contact briefly, fleetingly. A false kind of fever will be the one enveloping us--just a forced, manipulated, fantasized warmth. He will not reciprocate willingly; his mouth will graze mine but will not make an effort in making me feel good. And I'll understand how unbearable it is for him. No matter how slow, how soft, how soothing the embrace. I'll wrap my hand around his neck like a noose rough and determined. I will angle his head to my own liking, and moans of desire and aversion will flow out his lips just to purposelessly hang in the steam-colored air. It will be a paradox for the both of us, with yearning and resentment playing at the tips of our conflicting tongues. Interlace, our trails of saliva will. And we will be so hopelessly drunk that every breaking away from the kiss will not suffice to cut through the primal haze.

I'll underestimate him. The dust that's accumulated on his lashes, he'll shake off with ease. His discomfort will overpower his itch. Detaching from me, he'll mutter under loathing breaths, "Enough, Porter." His hands will form fists as they push against my chest. A desperate attempt to tame me. To erase the prelude for a bedridden collision.

But I'll disregard him, see him merely as an object of a fancy. Our exhales will synchronize. I'll make a decision. Devour him whole. "Nothing's enough. I'll do what I want, Chandar."  
  
The bed's thin sheets and springy mattress will sink as both our weights collapse in it. Underneath me, he will struggle vainly. His breathing lost, his heart panicking. If this were real, how will he recuperate? Will there be a need to? Will I be capable of this transgression? I will efface the train of thought, replace its absence with lust lacking logic. And he will have glassy eyes as his strength falters, as his petals wither. Tears will form, because of me.  
  
I will pull at his shirt to reveal his sculpted flesh, and he will be betrayed by the atmosphere. His torso will tremble at the coldness that filtered through the cracked window. It will bite him, dictate his need for heat that only I can give. I will lower my head, start leaving kisses and purple marks all over the velvety surface of his skin. My stiff fingers will thumb through his pages, and shameful groans will leave his system. I will remove all the things that protected him, and expose him to inhibition. His fragility, his clarity, his insecurity, his sublime nature--all his, now mine to steal away.  
  
His shirt, his pants, his belt forsaken on the floor will further heighten his anxiety. His responses to my every movement will become more emphasized, more shameless. His cries will linger in the air around us, precarious and barely insincere. He'll feel what I want him to feel. And succumb. With me. Into the nothingness. Into the unfurling spiral of anguish and crave. Compel the animal part. Stimulate the insides. Cut off morality. Sever ties with reality.  
  
_I'll take care of you; ravish you in your bed. Know that there will be ache at first and it will sting. But I'll move slow, and soon you'll accept me._ Fluctuating bodies, bathed in sweat and eagerness and fear.  
  
Please, don't let me be alone here.  
  
"Fuck," I breathe out hurtfully, "Chandar." My weak, exhausted groan resounds as it floats through the flowing water; its whispered echo lingers like the smell of military-issued soap. I wash the release off of my hands, feeling guilty and halfway satisfied; I feel how the water's turned cold and strange to the touch. The bubbly froth at the feet is nowhere to be seen. I turn the knob of the shower counter-clockwise, and an instant silence ravages the communal bathroom. But then the dripping sounds from my hair tries to conceal the emptiness. I reach for the towel hanging directly behind me, by a metal hook on the stall's door. I dry my head with it before wrapping it around my waist.  
  
A click. Unlocked, I step out the compact cubicle, gripping the towel secure. I pass a number of other stalls before arriving at the doorless entryway which connected to another, more spacious room. The wetness of my rinsed feet left shallow puddles on the path I took carelessly, indicating my short journey from the showers to the locker room. The small metal cabinet swings open after I press an effortless code. On a narrow bench facing the several rows of lockers, I take a seat, laying my clothes upon my lap. The idleness of the routine rings in my ears, irritating me, sending me into an agitated state. Ennui and ambivalence--what a fucking hellish combination.  
  
I sigh blandly, mimicking the bleakness of the dirty white walls.  
  
"Sergeant," a intimate voice reverberates, and I look up to see the man I spoiled and defiled just a few minutes ago. His disciplined demeanor, polite attitude and indifferent voice splashes his handsome features with brilliance. But to me, he is calamity. A subtly freckled, flushed, and modest storm. And his youth. His youth that lets him appear to bloom right before your eyes. And now he is so painfully near that I feel as if I'm in danger of being swallowed up by his presence alone. He is so overwhelmingly warm.  
  
I wish to feel it for myself. What if he doesn't want to let me?  
  
He stands still at the center of the other doorway to the lockers area, the steel one which led to the main hallway. With my back turned, he waits for me to acknowledge him before continuing. "Yes, Chandar," I speak without facing him, letting but my vague peripheral vision to inattentively watch him. "What's it now?" I ask in a tone sharp and cross with a look deprived of meaning.   
  
He seems to be taken aback; a barely perceivable quiver attacked his parted lips as soon as silence seized the atmosphere once again. I watch his eyes flare up a little as his brows furrow with. Was my voice a bit too harsh on the edges? He answers flatly, "Director's requesting for you. Orientation about the next op where you'll act as squad leader," he responds mechanically whilst pulling his hands out his pockets. "You've five minutes."  
  
Without leaving my seat, I put on the long-sleeved shirt; its tight navy blue fabric hugs the body firmly and grants a pitiful amount of heat. "Got it," I mutter, hushed and seemingly apathetic. The serrated and hurried responses I gave hinted on me wanting him to leave as soon as possible. He's not an expert in deciphering buried sentiments, and I'm almost on the brink of breaking. I can't understand what I'm really feeling, but I do know I can't handle any more of this.  
  
"Something that bothers you, Porter? You've changed the way you talk to me. Where's the energy gone to, mate?" he jokingly sighs out, his voice restrained and curious. Somehow his face exudes of low spirits. Somehow his expression darkens in every second that passes without me replying. His inhales become infrequent and pained.  
  
I turn to look at him, my neck strains. I feel the bare veins emboss, hear the hot blood race. "Leave," I say, but maybe my expression told otherwise.  
  
He frowns, even still, he continues to glow, ousting the dim overhead lamps of the metallic room. Gritting his teeth, he copes, then makes his way towards me. He sits on the narrow bench, mirroring my form with his legs dangling on the opposite side. Our arms brush, and the feeling of closeness engulfs me. Along the fringe of a cliff, he treads, unaware of the danger, unaware of the height of the fall. I hear his sigh clearly and almost feel it against my barren neck. He was intolerably close that I could just about taste him. This naive delicacy and accidental seduction of a man. And he shatters the silence that I know he knows I'm afraid of, in the manner of a careful whisper. "You don't have to be alone, alright? I'm here, so help me understand." Our gazes meet briefly, and the sudden connection swallows up time. However, that moment dies as soon as it's borne--his eyes suddenly regain a blaze of realization of something essential. All I could think of is if his heart's also beating at the same insufferable pace as mine? He wonders, out loud, "Wait, am I the problem? Did I do something wrong?"  
  
I'm shackled, underneath his inferring gaze. So I look away, refocus on something mundane to distract myself with. The deep green lockers, the freezing steel benches, the pale beige walls, the wet square tiles, the flickering white lamps--everything assaulted my sight. Every inanimate thing that ate up space. There's nothing else but him that I sincerely wanted to witness. And no one else but him who sincerely wanted to fix me.  
  
My body dictates to me to let it all out; seize this moment of small distance and isolation and confess everything rattling inside my chest. Profess this disease he made me contract by smiling so endearingly and looking at me as if I was remotely significant. Declare all the embarrassing fantasies and all the pleasure-seeking thoughts that contain mostly of him whimpering and gasping. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him now. How caring his gaze, how graceful his body, how brave his eyes.  
  
The low chatter in the hallway leaks in through the unsecured doorway of the locker room. And I don't feel alone with him anymore. I feel frightened. Lost again. Sunk in dissonance. I utter, in a sudden, mindless moment, "You're unbearable. I can't take the sight of you, Chandar."  
  
He contemplates, paralyzed and noiseless. The clock ticks time away, and the present vanishes slowly. A twitch in his lips plagues me, wrecks me. His trembling tongue hides behind a quiet, defeated inhale. So I think about what I said, but it's hopeless--I can't put it in any other way. That's the truth that I came up with. That's the resolution of this disparate heart. Because he's a friend, and nothing more. I can't possibly think of him as something more.

The crisp air from the outside sifts into the dull room. A soft swish of the breeze combs through his short hair. He looks at me, disoriented with surrendered eyes and a faltered voice. "Got it," he echoes, before one last flash of a soft grin. Forced, manipulated, in pretense. He shifts, exits his seat and establishes distance quickly. Turned away, never looking back. Maybe it's for the best, despite disappointment ruining my insides. Maybe walking away is better than confrontation.

His eyes appear glassy, gleaming unnaturally. My hands shake. Is this regret? He stands by the doorway, clutching the wooden frame forcefully, as if wanting to suffocate the entrance to where we conversed for, perhaps, the last time. He takes another gulp of air, ponders about what he should do. "Sorry that you feel that way."  
  
With that, he's dissipated. And I am still torn with what I actually felt. What I wanted from him.  
  
Or am I not supposed to feel or want anything at all?

I halt all thought. No more.

I cradle my head in my hands. I tug at my hair. I claw at my cheeks.

I understand.  
  
"You're unbearable. Because I fucking love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter is blue  
> everything's leaving  
> fires are now burning,  
> and life has no reason.
> 
> I am alone,  
> waiting for nothing  
> if my heart freezes  
> I won't feel the breaking.
> 
> [Vashti Bunyan - Winter Is Blue]


	2. Heretofore Known As Memory

The depressions on his face, the dangling cigar whose falling embers litter the cement, the asymmetrically cut facial hair, the furrowed eyebrows that stress the wrinkled expression, and the darkened lips that speak of war like it's a joke--he is, and never will be anything else but weary and bitter. He's fallen so far away from innocence, and the craters of his failures prove too deep to climb out of. He is comfortable wallowing in his parasitic well, and shows no resistance to the clutch of death. Old and cynical bastard. He faces me with a look arranged with no mercy nor determination; he's already given up, and is just here for the last whirl of the roller coaster, covered in putrid despair and frailty.  
  
He stands beside the door to his office like a proud guard dog, sniffing for intruders aimlessly. Then he lands his eyes on the me who was approaching from the direction of the main stairs, in a steady pace, patient and composed. I manifest no reluctance, only self-effacing discipline and excellence-seeking character. But not for the sake of his approval--no, I've got no ounce of adoration for authority; what I do have are manners. "Director," I start in a politely apathetic undertone, "sir."  
  
A shadow of a grin plays at his mouth as a cloud of gray gushes through his teeth, and he opens the door to guide me in. The high-ceiling room smells of spring thaw, frayed books and swirled whiskey; in response, I hold my breath to keep myself from wincing at the strong odor. I stop at the middle of the space, in front of his steel desk polluted with haphazardly placed binders filled with confidentiality. He continues his slow stagger, makes his way towards the leather seat behind the low table, and sinks into it ungracefully. His rugged breaths are apparent, brimming the room with intermittent noise.  
  
He rests his elbows on the desk's surface, interlaces his ridged fingers, and speaks in a tone alarming and hoarse. The sound of his voice is a prolonged cough; blame the cigar for his rotting throat, heaving lungs and toiling diaphragm. "Have a seat, Sergeant." His right arm outstretches, gliding through the air as a simple gesture pointing towards the empty chair to my right. "We've quite a weighty discourse ahead of us."  
  
"Yes, sir." An automatic reply shot through the air. I occupy the chair, and glanced forward, attentive and cautious.  
  
The disintegrating life-burner gives off intricate wafts, and fogs up his already graying demeanor. My senses catch the stink, and I hold back a choke. But in a decisive moment, he removes the cigar from his mouth and places it on a nearby ashtray to dissolve itself away, before relaxing his chin on the back of his creased fingers. He blinks, and I notice the tiredness of his gaze. "How's the FNG doing?"  
  
"Chandar, sir?" I say his name, and it's an enrapturing delicacy. But then the reality of the situation makes itself known, and the stabs of clarity ruptures me from the inside. I wonder what's made the Director ask about him. "He's adjusting well," in a low voice, I continue, shifting in my seat slightly. Yes, he is adjusting, and is on his way to find solace in other people. Slowly, slowly, further and further away from me. I can feel his footprints getting washed away by a tidal wave of misinterpretation that I cannot tame. I can only watch, powerlessly, his back, his long shadow, his soft hair, exiting my grasp.  
  
He scans my posture with cold eyes. There was disagreement in the way the muscles on his face twitched ever so slightly. "I sincerely hope that is the case," he pauses to reveal candor that's easily read to merely be all in pretense, "after the disappointment that he was during the last operation, I'm trusting he'd attempt to reconstruct himself. That lad excels, comes off as someone who hasn't got any weak point, indeed, his mental prowess, physical capabilities, and discipline are thoroughly developed. The CQC trials and the timed field exercises prove that to be true. However, Chandar is ignorant, of the reality, the sacrifices, the stakes. He's quite . . . unfit for the SAS."  
  
I nip at the inside of my mouth; my lips twitch at the harshness of his tone. "Interrogative," I speak quietly and wait for his permission. His index finger jolts, signalling my liberty to talk. "Why are you telling this to me, sir? What about the new operation?"  
  
A smirk and a laugh veiled in smoke hangs in the air. "Listen close, lad. After the Selfridges' bombing on Oxford Street, Operation Harvest Season came into play. All thanks to an undercover informant who leaked the location of a London-based Verzicht hide-out. Their primary objectives? Shoot-to-kill and collect the terrorist group's intel. An explosive kind of reconnaissance, if you will. A fairly manageable raid. And it was a give-away--the informant's been gathering his own fair share of info for months; he reported on how many guards patrolled, and even the apartment's lay-out. It was so bloody simple and lax--a hand-out of a mission. And yet, he fucked it--and that is all that you have to know. His squad rode home empty-handed. All four injured, and one man lost. Terrorists won, because he dared not win." The cigar scorches the air with its striped lines of bluish gray, and it resembles the anger proliferating behind the lens of his eyes. "The worst part is as follows. The Russians salvaged some scrap intel from the grave his squad left. And now shame has befallen us. Can you imagine? The SAS obliterated, and believed to be careless by foreign defenses. Somewhere in those snow-covered hills, the Spetsnaz is mocking our ineptitude. We were a stone's throw away in bringing down the rising terror, if only--"  
  
I force down a shudder as I feel my hands wanting to form a fist. All the Director spat out was a selfish fabrication, a forceful twisting of the events just to erase his portion of the blame. I believe in Chandar. The truth lies in his pained expression during the aftermath of the operation, one dim lit afternoon. I remember that conversation. How lighthearted, how inviting. I barely thought of what he thought of me back then. Now his gaze is such a burden to bear.  
  
"There is a reason as to why I'm telling you this," his tone changes from a biting cold to a thawed out sympathy. "I am at the other end of the leash, tugging and yanking at your necks. I see who's gnawing what, I see who's pissing on flowerbeds, I see who's sleeping on duty. Why? Because, I am  _supposed_ to see. You know what I'm doing now? I'm pulling at your chain, I'm making you see for yourself as well. See, I'm kind like that. I let you see what you can't. And that is, Chandar does not belong here. He does not deserve the emblem, and you're no longer but a sergeant. Do you understand, Field Commander? You've got an iron fist now--just like me--if you've got half a brain, the essential action should be a given." He lifts his chin from the nest of intertwined fingers, and forces a supportive and encouraging look, but the soul behind the flesh reeks of such acrid aroma that it perverts the ashen face through and through. In each breath drawn by him, I hear of hidden schemes manifesting. And he wants me to acknowledge them, he wants me to bow down. Submit to the order which remains unspoken, and which paraphrases death. Become the agent of destruction bent to his will. Emerge as the harbinger of your comrade's downfall. Undergo a metamorphosis, stretch out your wings, swoop down and strike--destroy the one you love.  
  
And according to him, it won't be a betrayal, but a mere necessity.  
  
Of course, he does not know how much it hurts. He does not know of the overflowing deluge wrenching my heart, slowly halving it. He sits in his throne of senescence and corruption, smiling, thinking, all the soldiers in this building with their rifles and contagious wills to live are all committed to him and his absolute command. Like I said, I don't like authority. Especially ones who are already tucked snugly in their deathbeds, and are just kicking the sheets for the sake of amusement, for the sake of turning the last breath into the last cackle. Old and cynical bastards who live on because we die for them. Christ.  
  
It writhes, aches. Right here. There is too much to process; too much being shoved down my throat. I drink it all, this distortion of truth coming from the head of an organization who swore to protect. It clatters in the concave of my rib cage, this sudden clamor deep within. Who should I fight for now? Who should I serve? The incessant ringing is escalating, bringing me into a place that's anywhere but here. I escape, for a while. Deafened and fed up, I abandon the stiff chair, the dissipating cigar, the rotting Director, the unsystematic folders. I forsake the present, in pursuit for a moment in the past that feels like a sanctuary. I beat the clock. Go back to him.  
  
He who, bathed in soft light and stained bandages, stood by a bench in the empty locker room--yes, him, the recruit plucked out of the most recent Selection who's ten years my junior. I think his name was Chandar and that he was from York. He was having quite a bit of trouble with changing out of his dust-riddled clothes. I looked at him, concerned, maybe even worried. The gauze wrapped around his forearms were secure as can be, and the wounds underneath them suggested pain and depth. The determination on his expression waned in each passing second, and made room for fractured confidence. "Bloody hell. What happened to you, mate?"  
  
He flinched, once he'd heard no longer was he solitary in that desolate room of rust and weak lighting in desperate want of repair. "Didn't get an easy one," he mumbled softly, as if addressing himself. He didn't look up to meet my distressed gaze that troubled itself with his suffering body.  
  
"That a joke, rookie?" I replied swiftly, afraid the quiet would upset him. Just like it upset me, after those missions that weighed a world on the shoulder and stung the guts like a knife.  
  
Finally, he lifted his head to catch a glimpse at the me who stood a mere couple of feet away. But it was a thousand-yard stare--he was looking right through me, treating me as a ghost. What a mess. His skin screamed pale and whenever he inhaled, his shoulders would falter. He was standing in the midst of that hollow space, like a ravaged flower in a storm-blighted desert. Piece by piece, petal by petal, he evaporated beneath the faint bulbs. And in a strained voice accompanied by a shaken exhale, he declared, "I'm a sergeant." He sighed, releasing air he deemed polluted, and with a burdened smile, continued, "And, yes. It was a joke. Problem is, I can't laugh about it."  
  
Several careful steps in and I allowed the space between us to disappear. I felt the grief in his tone so manifest that it was almost tangible. Trembling in the rigid cold was this soldier trapped in the trenches alone, I decided to outstretch my arm, let him know that the sun still existed. But it was a tough task, I didn't want to send him back to the field where his scars were still fresh, and death from blood loss was a constant ordeal. How do you save someone who's been saved the wrong way? "You have to laugh. Laugh it dry. Laugh till everyone calls you a right barmy bastard." I placed a hand on his shoulder, before squeezing firmly and shaking him awake from his daze. I might have hurt him from the heaviness of the contact, but I trusted him to understand. That I was here. And there was no pity, no blame, no judgement, only understanding. Camaraderie.  
  
And there it was--a phantom of a chuckle escaped his mouth. The tiny scars on his lips quivered, accentuating their delicate red taint. I found myself staring for too long at his defined cupid's bow, and felt my hand not wanting to let go, scared if I did, he'd plunge again. His shoulders relaxed and his barren look softened somewhat. "I will, sir. Sorry for looking so gutted," he spoke, glancing upwards to permit his gaze to meet mine. I realized how so near we were with each other. So close. And his tone reverberated in my ears in such an unusual way that it made me want to make him talk to me more. By then, I thought I'd succeeded in lightening him up just a bit. But the horrors of chaos, they weren't for everyone. The experience was different for every individual in this line of work. Some would enjoy the thrill of it, some would lose themselves and never come back again. He wasn't like me. "I just-- I didn't know what to do. We were-- The joke--it's all on me," he whispered, going off tangent, recollecting and reliving what had happened, forgetting me completely. He collapsed into the bench, slipping out of the weight of my rough hand. Retiring into solitude once more.  
  
I gulped mindlessly, mindful of his frail state. I didn't know what to do either. So I took a seat beside him; my bare arms brushed against his dressed bruises and lacerations. He wasn't like me, I chanted. Maybe silence should fit him. I kept him company, still and peaceful. The darkness seeped out of his eyes like tears and I wanted to wipe it off, but I told myself not to disturb him. Let him be. Let him breathe.  
  
"Right from the start, our intel was off. And there was a nagging suspicion that the informant was a double-agent. But still, we charged forward, because the man behind the curtain told us to do so," he stopped to catch his lost breath; worn out, his lungs struggled and fought through the treacherous memory. I was cautious of sending him back, but if confiding to me would help, then I'll lend an attentive ear. He lowered his head, and his dirtied hair was accented with drab light. "Everything fell apart from then on. I tried to-- Base couldn't be contacted. We were on our own. It was hell. We were guessing. Chess in the dark."  
  
I rested my elbows on my thighs, and collapsed my head onto hands held together. A deep breath raked my throat, the taste of betrayal was acidic, and the more he spoke of it so regretfully in a shaky voice, the more it hurt. The more it seemed right to share this torture with him.  
  
"We were desperate for reinforcements, or just a crumb of intel. Nothing came to our rescue soon enough. Even the evac choppers were late." A somber chuckle trailed in the air. He fiddled with his coarse fingers, recalling the temperature of the trigger underneath leather gloves. "At that time, there was an agreement with the Spetsnaz. They were to rush in as back-up if the go-signal was radio-ed. But during prep phase, the voices from above prohibited us from contacting them, no matter what. Bloody English pride. Despite knowing the Russians have been on Verzicht's tail long before we did, they refused all help." His tone underwent a change, from saddened to vicious. A snarl wrapped in sorrow. His expression was fierce and overcast as he tilted his head to look me straight in the eye. Such a heavy, principled gaze. I handled it badly. "We were cornered. The squad leader deserted us. I had to call them in. We needed to be saved."  
  
The traitors were up above with wings of steel and leverage. They were submerged in the mud with their guns impaled in their chests. What the fuck are we all doing in this battlefield? No one belonged here. Everyone had the right to life. "You're also a human, not just a soldier. You did the right thing, recruit. I know they'll tell you otherwise, but I won't. I hope that counts." I unravel a smile, encouraging and sympathetic, because I meant it.  
  
In an instant, he braved a change of expression. I guessed it was contagious. I noticed him warm up slowly, flutter contently, shine vividly. I didn't understand what I did to make him cheer up so suddenly, but I liked it. I felt the need for it. I wanted to make him happy often. Always. "Bastard," he exclaimed, heartily, with a dash of sincerity tinging his lips. "Thank you. I needed that," he professed with an honest smile that confiscated any sort of response from me. Speechless, I stared and came to a conclusion: I liked seeing him like this. I returned the genuine smirk with a breathy chuckle, glad I could lift the burden off of his back somehow. He bit at his lip before turning away slightly. Observant, I watched his cheeks flush for a moment, subtly. "I came in here, hopeless and in want of an escape. I was getting blinkered. I needed something. I guess that was you."  
  
I thought of how overly sentimental he was being; for me it was rather hilarious, but also quite disarming. He was more than flesh and bone, more than blood and intestines; he was ethereal. I reached to him, to his parts which were corporeal, that tranquil afternoon, and pulled him into an embrace. Because, despite his smile and newfound composure, he was still in devastated pieces.  
  
There came no further exchange of words. Only calm and our blended warmth. And the atmosphere of that voided space that welcomed only the two of us, soon clouded, transformed into a sort of dazed refuge. I clasped him softly, careful enough to not put pressure on his wounds. He rested his chin on my shoulder, as if he'd been wanting to do that all this time. Unknowingly, my fingertips would trace his back.  
  
And I heard him force down tears. I heard him feign courage. I heard him gasp in a trembling breath. I heard his hatred for the unfairness. He was still there in the pit, but at least he knew, I was there with him.  
  
But, now, he is away. I pushed him off and locked myself in; I'm no better than those cowardly deserters. Right now, to him, I am also a traitor. All I can do is reminisce, maltreat myself in the process, abuse the already irregular heart. I recollect the fragments of the past, and see those nights spent sleepless and talking. Those days consumed with the slowly igniting feeling. Those dawns drained of light from trying to solve the skipping heartbeat. It's so cruelly simple. But I didn't want to confront him. And I didn't want to hurt myself.  
  
Fool. Frightened by the crave that comes with the well-meaning emotion. Confined in a fortress isolated and desolate. It's time to stir awake, blink away the fog that tricks the eye, and discern how much you really cherish him. How much you adore him.  
  
But, regardless of me accepting the truth, the dense fog stays. The cigar is not at all close to dying, and it mocks me with its persistent reek. The Director as well, with his weathered face and receding hairline; he glared with a feeble gaze and a tobacco-laced frown.  
  
"Take this," he slid a thin folder held together by metal paperclips over the flat surface, avoiding the dusty ashtray. "This folder's contents are to be shared with your squad only. They're waiting for you in the conference area downstairs. Three hours until deployment for Operation Krasnaya Assist, so don't waste time. Plan accordingly, all details are in the document. There's no need for me to guide you through; I trust your literacy," the deadened tone resonates blankly. It goes in one ear, and goes out the other. "Pack light. There's more than thirty hours of land and sea transport ahead of you. Once you get posted, base will contact you and provide aerial support like usual. Now, go fuck those German ultranationalists up and prove to Spetsnaz we're not useless. Dismissed, Kursk Oblast is waiting for you."  
  
I stand as I nod, and take my leave without looking back. As I push through the heavy door, I hear him mutter under low breaths, "Pull this off and you might just get a recommendation to Six."  
  
The hallway of cement and dust greets me with its stark lighting and weapon racks. I march in calculated steps, attempting to simmer down the boiling adrenaline in my stomach. I'd looked through the folder, skimmed through the printed pages branded secret and lethal; it spoke of the Verzicht and their declarations of war with the countries who emerged with honor in the last one. It pointed out their pettiness and cleverness, their savagery and awareness, their distorted sense of justice and fevered patriotism. It recounted their bombings, their armed-to-the-teeth attacks in several French industrial solutions companies and one particular museum in China. They demolished corporate buildings, engineering factories. They desecrated a piece of significant national history. Indeed, there's a pattern. They like kicking under the belt, aiming at a country's pride and pillars. Extremists like them, with grudges as their motivation, will always fail in the end. They've lost as soon as they started the race.  
  
I climb down the stairs; my heavy footsteps echo and mask the gunshots from the firing range. To my left, at the last step, another long hallway materializes. Its door-lined walls resemble a hotel for people who cope with trauma uniquely.  
  
And I see him, leaning against the door to the meeting room. Waiting. His name bites my tongue once he lands his eyes on me. There is so much for us to talk about. I want to fix it. Rearrange the bits and pieces. But, I don't want to go back to how we were, I want something else entirely. Something warmer. More exciting, more open, more worthwhile. So I approach steadily, trying my hardest not to make the wrong expression. But in a pivotal second, in a critical juncture, he calls out, "Dawn's a-breaking, lads. Wake up."  
  
Ah, he was a look-out. Baker and Cowden were probably playing cards again. It's laughable. I can almost see them shuffling in their seats, rushing to hide their bets in their pockets. But there is something much more important than that. So I seize it, and cease the churning of fear in my insides. I brave through it. Like him, that one dim lit afternoon.  
  
"Chandar," I almost shout, anxious he would merely shrug me off.   
  
He turns on his heel and avoids my eyes. He looks stubborn and hurt; there is fatigue accumulating under his eyes. For a second, he nips at his lower lip, as if stopping himself from saying anything. But I gulp, because it was too damn attractive. "What?" he asks with an unfocused stare, standing beside the door frame just a couple of meters away from me.  
  
"Sorry," I manage to pronounce without any difficulty despite the hammering of my heart and failing of my lungs, "about earlier. We'll talk about it, alright?" I let out a breath, determined not to waver.  
  
In reply, he grants me silence. And finally, he finds himself staring back at me, searching for certainty and sincerity. His lashes flicker like a newborn flame, nervous and unrelenting. He always shows so much strength. But he loves the quiet a bit too much, so when I do not get any reply, I smirk gently. There's nothing to worry about. "I've got something on my mind, which is why I was acting like that."  
  
A flare of interest blooms with a pinch of impatience. I hear his voice course through my veins again. All natural and raw. "Well, what in the hell was it?"  
  
I choose to say it in a whisper. In a heated tone fresh out of the cracks of my heart. So I lean in close and arrive at his ear, and I feel him shiver from the sudden contact. I see how flustered his cheeks are and how comfortable I am at this distance. "You. What else?"  
  
The afternoon melts. I think he kisses me on the cheek before we set out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When solace finds you,  
> knock at my door  
> we'll talk till dawn,  
> we'll cherish this time  
> not like before.  
> And woe betide those who decry you;  
> they'll never know how I adore you.
> 
> [Matt Elliot - The Kübler-Ross Model]


	3. To Confront The Present

He asks if they're live. The straight suit he wears resembles soot, and each slight motion disturbs its pressed neatness. His traditional Venetian mask doused with thick paint shifts therefore. The horizontal band of pitch black over the eye sockets until the temples blends in with the dark backdrop. The jaw and lips glossed with a symmetrical stripe of torrid red stay motionless and somewhat predatory. However, the middle of the face remains untouched as a pearly white. He wears a message, a speech for a campaign, a charade-powered propaganda, or more bluntly, a prelude to action. Beneath the painted porcelain is a bare, veined neck. All pallid and bloodless like a puppet, but in this case, a sentient one who needed no guidance. In his gaze, one can see the dilated pupils of a vulture, preparing to peck at the flesh, and prick the bones beneath clean. He clears his throat, preparing to spade into the ears of the unwilling listeners.

_"Tragedy is not unbeknownst to us. It is neither foreign nor unfamiliar. The loss of a friend, a lover, a loved one. The departure of someone held dear, close to the heart and soul. The accidents, the blunders, the miscalculations, that cost so much in the end. We know of disaster like it's a cousin in the same neighborhood; we know it lurks nearby, ready to greet us hello at any moment. Still, we move on. We continue our slow and confident walk. We place our trust in strangers, in faulty wires, in leaking gutters, in unsteady foundations. We want to be unable to look back, to be incapable of regret. Simply because, it is easier to live that way. So much easier. To not have grudges or grievances needling our hearts. To not have constant fear that it may happen again."_

There overlaps a manipulative distortion on the screen; some streaks of black, white and blue along with neon white flashes strafe the once smooth presentation. It's most likely that they're trying to cut off the hacked broadcasting. But it's taking them too damn long, and to make matters worse, the show's a daytime news program. It's not that they're incompetent, it's just that the studio staff has been executed on live TV, and the IT department is too shaken up to keep their professionalism and efficiency. Or perhaps, they are being held up as hostages. Maybe the communications towers themselves were crumbling in panic.

_"We think misery should not be part of life; we pray for it to disappear. We yearn for happiness, fulfillment, joy. What kind of person would wish sadness upon himself? What kind of person would want the pain to double? That's madness, is it not? Sheer insanity. Delusions of masochists. The normal masses shun these disgraces, these individuals who cling to the torments of the past, the long shadows of unpleasant memory. Move on, they say, let it go. Then the sad ones ask 'why'. Life goes on, they answer._

_Well, tough luck, I tell you now. Yes, you--viewers at work, at school, at home and wherever else. Too bad. They've banded together--these men fueled by vengeance, and driven to unearth buried failures. They are willing to plunge deep, break their bones, burn down their dreams. Because the future does not matter, and the present is a disease. The perfection that the past wanted is the only hope for them. They've awoken from their slumber, blinked away the morning dew, tossed away the blankets of comfort, of lies. They're awake and kicking now. Together, they grieve for the tragedy, the loss, the disaster--the death of their country."_

He stands from his seat, and the chair swings backwards. The camera zooms out, reveals that he is not alone on the stage. There are gagged people, kneeling down with their hands behind their heads, at the very edge of the elevated deck. He staggers towards them, in gradual, menacing footsteps. From outside of the camera's range, six people enter the frame, armed and suited up like pretend soldiers. Concealed identities underneath black balaclavas. They line up. Pick a target. Aim down. The hostages stare with surrendered eyes.

 _"And who leads them? I do. To their purpose, their limit, their demise. And we'll take you with us. Have a glimpse of what your future holds. Open fire,"_ he speaks in the same monotone, detached and dour. Thunder cracks from within the building. Smoke froths outwards as gold shells hit the carpet. The men and women dressed in casual office attire convulse forward. The lens catches a smear of crimson, and the man behind the live execution wipes it with his gloves. Behold, punctured humans and the evidence of demons. The limp bodies loll upon the stained ground, leaking out and losing life. Their final words are stuck in the black rags pushed deep into the back of their throats. " _People of New Germany, people of the world. We are the horde that clings to the truth of history; we take it to heart, we use it as oxygen, we load it as ammunition. We fight for the Germany that we lost along the way. That empire that crumbled before its pillars were erected. We weep for what is lost, and what is dead. We do not want to start a war, but if it's what's needed to begin anew, then so be it. So, I say to you, to those who still live: prepare for change."_

His voice is natural; they did not bother to distort it into something robotic and untraceable. They wanted to convey their humanity by showing how they were no different than those watching and listening. They are human.

 _"We know what we've gotten ourselves into. We know that the stakes are much higher than before, and we are being hunted down by the world's best hunters and hounds."_ He climbs down the steps of the raised platform, leaving footprints splashed in vivid red. With his arms crossed on his rising and falling chest, he draws nearer and nearer by the second, towards the stationary camera. The gunners behind the scene exit the way they entered, and ruthlessly abandon the pools of carnage to evaporate into a mere metallic odor. " _It adds to the excitement, doesn't it? Where shall we strike next? Will we be wiped out? Will we be able to hold out and witness the rebirth of a more beautiful world? No one can say for certain; everything that will happen next is written with a pitchfork on flowing water. In this game of fortune two sides play. But, who is the evil one? Who must you root for? Those who commit to the revival of the poisoned country, or those who dedicate themselves into maintaining that falsehood? Those who fight bravely or those who cower in corners, waiting for someone to fight for them? I can answer that for you, watchers. The enemy is the civilian; the one who sits and eats and shits in peace. The one who has beliefs but does not uphold them. The one with principles and is a hypocrite. The enemy is you. And in cold blood, you will die."_

The screen blackens, warps into a perceivable emptiness. Then flashing words start lashing at the monitor, in a foul and magnetic white: Bells are ringing. Revive Dead Germany.

The compact display flickers off of power, and retires into a hollow, dormant dark. After the sound of a flipped switch, the room's fluorescent bulbs become prevalent once more. Stark and gray, the cube called conference area clarifies underneath the heavy lights. Steel chairs lined up hastily into a careless half-circle are occupied by men geared up like the shooters in the recorded video. Their gazes are full of conviction, nourished with shared adrenaline for the enforcing of justice. Justice for the innocents--the unfairly sacrificed and put before a firing squad. It is entirely up to them now; the recuperation of a country betrayed by itself. It is a millstone around their necks: the responsibility to carry out retribution for the traumatized families, and fear-consumed public. It's their duty to ease the pain felt by others, and their chore to shrug off their own. The VDU reflects the striking black of the pupils, mirrors the slight movements of the burdened soldiers with no right to cry.

Thirty hours of land, sea and air takes its toll during idle moments like these. Drowsiness, headache, fatigue. Shake it off. Dust it off of the body like its just ash and dirt. Concentrate on the details of the mission: its whys and hows. Do not dedicate an ounce of focus to the exasperated limbs that reject sleep. Disallow your gaze from tracing Chandar's features contoured by such brutal lighting. Stay attentive. Detach from anything else but the task at hand.

We all wait for the Russian operator to continue his presentation. He moves his fingers away from the off-switch of the monitor, and walks in front of it, effectively shifting all attention to him. "The country is off grid as of late--isolated from outside forces. After hostage event, Verzicht launched a concentrated EMP charge that put country to sleep. You know of that fact already, but not all background details," he stops to take a breath; around him hangs an air of hostility that only he inhales. He stands upfront with his sickly complexion and sharply pigmented eyes coupled with his lack of enthusiasm to talk. And it made me realize that the space he takes up in this universe cannot be invaded by just anyone. He is closed off, walled up--esoteric, almost. "Before it went dark, GSG 9, transmitted a message to NATO committee. One of their covert agents acquired a draft of terrorist assault stratagem. It was whole world, not just Germany, that's under siege. But fact is, the aforementioned international siege has not started yet. Until now," he speaks low in a rough accent, enunciating every word that seems important. He turns away to reach for a folder that is accommodated by the middle bracket of the wheeled rack the dead monitor sat on top of. He grips the Director's folder that contains a handful of basic instructions, along with a brief history of the Verzicht's troublesome situation. He raises it, almost above his head, before explaining further, "I do not intend to explain this much about terrorist group, but quite unfortunately, your intel is far from truth. I assert, Verzicht is not behind France and China attacks."

A frown curves Baker's mouth as he argues against the fifth squad member who claimed to know better, "You think their CTUs are treating these attacks as a jest? You think they're incompetent enough to confuse two terrorists groups with one another? More than a thousand confirmed kills and their MO is still too unclear to pinpoint? You've got to be joking me." Beneath the glare of the ceiling lights, his wrinkled expression exposes uncertainty and distaste. He leans forward in his seat, and a shadow deepens his sentiments shared by the rest of the squad. "Elaborate on that as best you can. Because, there is no chance in hell, mate. All facts point to them deserving the blame." Baker leans back into his seat once more, groaning and emitting frustration. He hones the ferocity of his brown-eyed glare directed at the Russian operator.

"I'm here to advise, not argue. Anyways, we never believed what those terror-stricken countries believed. Intel obtained during London raid proved our suspicions correct, although, your superiors denied our volunteering to share valuable information--"

Baker interjects, desiring to clarify some things to the Russian operator. A double-entendre splits through the somber environment. "Trust is rewarding, but nowadays, quite unstable--that is doubtlessly the case. Allies make great _enemies_."

"Agreed. We understand you did not want to risk receiving a falsified record. But, it was a bad time for that. Nowadays, you take what you can get," the Russian insists, calm and sure. Then his demeanor adjusts into a figure overcast with the shadow of pride. At first, he came across as a man of control, but now, I'm not so sure. He did not censor his emotionally-charged words that rang of criticism and agitation. With a tinge of grief as an undertone. "Now, here you are--dwelling on our land, trying to prove yourself worthy by acting all diplomatic. This joint op is not to my liking, but this is one way to repay your debt. One of our men KIA in your country just to keep your ineffective squad safe--four lives to sacrifice should be enough," he remarks with his chin raised, beholding the four seated operators in an almost vexed manner. We observe him, equally offended; the atmosphere tenses up in each passing minute, reaching an almost suffocating state. Despite that, no lip quivers and succumbs to the sly provocation. A polite, quiet gush of wind translates our permission for him to continue. He rubs his temples bitterly, and the blood vessels in his eyes appear more prominent. Recent history haunts his mind, and he recounts, "Here is what happened: Verzicht's shutting down of Germany was last scene of first act. After that, they turned dormant; subsequent actions done by their puppeteers: White Masks. According to retrieved files, Verzicht is facade for this much more fearsome foe. Before self-corruption of drive, we discover their backers specialize in biochemical warfare. That is all I can say--all we know. Their goal as of late is still enigmatic." The half-mask he wears does not hinder the resonance of his lax but serious tone. The tactical googles placed over his head encompass his willingness to look us all in the eye. He lands his gaze onto me, and soon enough, over to my direction, he tosses the misinformed folder impulsively. I follow it with my eyes before capturing it mid-air with both hands; I cannot express the full extent of my gratitude for these reliable paperclips that held all the documents securely in place.

Silence overtakes the space. Introspection digs itself deeper into each individual. Everyone's building their own views, own doubts, own conclusions. Baker continues his quest for the convoluted truth in a voice alarmed and eager. "Puppeteers? Facade? Is Verzicht's existence a diversion? That what you're implying?"

"Not implying, I affirm it. However, that does not mean they aren't a threat. They are as capable as the hands that help them," the Russian responds in a stiff tone. Sheathed in ice, his voice scrapes his throat, "They are branches. If we cut them down, inch by inch, we'll end up where we want to--root of danger, of evil, which is of highest priority."

Warsaw and NATO is set aside, like eaten up chess pieces, like inessential factors. Right this second, pacts don't matter. The brittle bond of trust is deemed good enough, for now. An unsure handshake could be imagined. There is no other option but to rely on a makeshift bridge destined to burn down soon enough. And I feel the unspeakable weight of the actual, clandestine purpose of us here upsetting the back of my mind. I feel the burden of reality like a boulder on the back. I climb uphill with this heavy obligation, and in every toiling step, it knocks upon my bones. And I am reminded chillingly, of the explicit order: help them, and at the last second, betray them. Act like friends, forsake them in the arena, then come out as the sole victors; make sure the little intel theft goes unnoticed. This friendly assistance operation established through a precarious affiliation has an untrustworthy underbelly. It is, without a doubt, cold out here, excruciatingly cold. The common ground and common goal are both obvious and perceivable, but honest cooperation, sadly, is too expensive for greedy bastards.

I exchange eye contact with the rest of the group; we've a clear target for the secondary objective. And that is, to unearth more of the White Masks intelligence that Spetsnaz clearly is withholding. Like a vault in the highest shelf. Hopefully, we'd reach it without any unnecessary skirmishes. I let confidence and optimism pool at the bottom of a wishing well, but rationality in the planning head is persevering still. "And we'll get to that eventually. Certainly. Though, right this instant, aren't we running out of time? I think it's safe to skim over an invisible threat for the time being, and focus all efforts on neutralizing the present one," I suggest, with clenched fists trying to simmer down the boiling thirst for action. "Do you have any idea as to who's the enemy twenty kilometers away?"

"Like I said, Verzicht went dormant, and it is not until now that they awake again. Yesterday, they crossed Russia-Ukraine border, unnoticed. Like ghosts. They reached Lgov, an elfin Kursk town, humble and quiet. Modern and deteriorating. Verzicht's goal is Lgov-1-Kievsky--a standard, run-of-mill railway station that connects to Moscow and Kharkov. At exactly 19:41 hours, they reached it. Breached it. Seized it. An estimate of fifty casualties in first hour. Officers, passengers, bystanders on sidewalk. Police and medics are called in, but they were a bit too late. Specialized CTU wasn't notified until later that evening, after a complete take-over of station at 20:30 hours. Thirty minutes later, Spetsnaz rushes to scene. Thr-- two ground offence teams are dispatched alongside a sniper and spotter team. Also, for security, heavy artillery is in perimeter, ground and air. Currently there are more than forty hostages in building. Women, children, men, whose circumstances are kept secret by terrorists. It cannot be ascertained whether they live or not. At present, all's unmoved. No buzz, no gunfight, no screams."

Cowden exclaims, refuses to stay silent about the situation, "Hostages, and heavy artillery. Absurd, isn't it? You keep those people safe, not expose them to more danger." He sheds his fatigue like a second skin. An evident apprehension and rejection further strains his frown.

The Russian looks unfazed. "It's precaution. And there is no point in complaining to someone who has no say. I'm not in charge; I'm expendable, just like you. We cannot change given command, only execute it," he trails off, monotone, then for a second, appears somewhat dejected. "And the command is like this: no negotiating. No matter the cost, the means, the sum of lost blood." He exhales, forlorn and remembering. He's got something on his mind that he's forbidden to communicate. "The prime concern is eliminating the danger, not alleviating collateral damage." Before anyone could contend, before the air could be contaminated with dispute, before the chairs could hit the ground, before the lights could flicker like a flame imperiled by wind, before we could impose morals. Our hitched breaths remain in shock, suspended in our lungs. "Two minutes to memorize lay-out which is simple enough as technically the structure only has one floor; five minutes to check gear and kits; at 06:00 hours we'll reach LZ one kilometer away from railway via Mi-24--or Hind, as you NATO mal'chikov call it. Then, we proceed on foot, undetected. Like ghosts. Keep alert for wandering terrorist militia all the way. Now, follow me to armory; I'll teach you how to operate our last resort means of room clearing," he dictates. He concludes. He blinks. He gestures for us to stand, follow suit. Forget the inhumanity and insensitivity of the orders we have no power over. Obey, obey, obey. In the process, just hope for the best, give it your all.

The uneasiness slowly wears off like the vibrant tint of overly washed fabric. By now, it's understood--resistance is useless, objectives are absolute, commanders are immovable. We all had to carry on, pretend there is light at the end of the tunnel. Erase that. We don't need to pretend, we just have to project that beacon ourselves, on our own.

"You're teaching us how to use a stun grenade? Now that's quite insulting. I'm taking offence, Russian," Baker comments, teasingly, as we head towards the door.

"I'm Uzbek. There's difference, English. Also, no, I teach you about my cluster charge, my dear Matryoshka. It does more than just blind and disorient enemy," he speaks in a more relaxed manner now. I can see how he enjoys talking about this unknown device. Another target for intel-gathering, it would seem. "Another thing, before I forget. It is standard, unassailable protocol that we have aliases. Think fast, regret later. I'll go with Fuze."

"And I with Sledge, like the ruthlessly heavy hammer," Cowden replies first in his usual low voice, with a clumsily hidden smirk on his face. An enthusiastic fist of his is lifted, firm and unwavering.

Baker, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, spontaneously spits out, "Thatcher. What a pain in the ass, this is. Why not just the usual Delta One, Two, Three?"

"Stop the barrage of protests," I interject with a tone friendly, but unflinching. "I'll be Smoke, as we were on the subject of grenades, and I couldn't think of anything else."

They watch him, his pursed lips and pondering expression. I want them to look away, get on with their lives. I want them to leave us alone. He's mine to behold--well, that part's self-proclaimed, nothing official . . . yet. He speaks, solemn, but his gaze is bright like morning. Simple and natural, just like that. "Mute. I don't talk a great amount--people assume."

A warm feeling replaces the metal cords in my stomach. Whatever he says, whether it be a desecrating insult or an empty, thoughtless remark, I'd listen earnestly. Drown my ears willingly to the noises he makes.

We roam, phantoms in halls of gray concrete and footstep echoes, towards the armory in the lower levels. Claustrophobic stairwells, porous walls and weathered doors plague the peripheral view. The sparkling dust in the air matches that of Hereford Base's ghastly atmosphere. As we approach the entryway to the vast room housing a variety of firearms stacked in racks, hung upon walls, and lined upon long tables for examination and polishing, Chandar stops me from entering. He grabs me by the wrist, never pulling, only clasps. Like a handcuff, he arrests me. The heart I'm used to settle down, works against me. I tilt my head to look at him with a worried expression, concerned about dying from heart failure. "It's not the best time. Save it for later. Told you already, didn't I? We'll talk."

"I know. This is a separate matter," he halts, inhales scarcely; a vague feeling affects his lips, making it open half-way reluctantly. Ears attentive, I attend to his every detail, every change, every blink. "I'm decent, but not fully healed, Captain. Just thought I'd inform you now, rather than later in the fight. Don't want to end up a nuisance and cost you."

The deceitful arteries of the cardinal hands that tug on our strings protrude more apparently. I frown at the thought, a sad kind of anger rots within. "And they knowingly sent you out still," I tell him with a vacant stare, "or did you request for deployment personally?"

"Former, sadly. Though I did think about doing the latter, to accompany y--" he stops abruptly, and I'm left waiting, wanting for him to finish. A fluctuation of pink overthrows the pale of his face, and he zips his lips.

"Well, worry not. I'll get you sorted out. Just don't deviate from the mission; you'll be alright as long as you can still charge and shoot," I knock on his chest reassuringly, gently, like it's a door to somewhere nice. I'd love to live in there, in the vessel of drumming muscle caged within his ribs. I'd love to.

"Of course, sir. It's not a problem. I am a bit slower than usual, but I'll pull through," he explains in a stirringly strong-willed tone. He then smiles, like a fool. I mirror the foolishness. In a fleeting piece of expensive time, we shone, content and indestructible. "I'll be sure not to let down the best Captain I've had so far."  
  
"The best? That's subject to debate." A choked laugh grazes my throat, and escapes as an amused exhale. I observe the mild hues of his lukewarm, inviting demeanor. "Flattery later. Now, we give our everything in the task we've got to fulfill."

"That I heard and understood, sir," he answers, energetically, and it electrifies me. A wave of realization gushes through me: I liked being called 'sir' more than 'captain' by him.

A ruckus can be heard from within the large room of metallic reek. Unrestrained exclamations for admiration bounce on the parched white walls and steel framework. "Stop with your girly shrieks, Sledge; bear witness to Matryoshka properly and silently. I know it is greatest invention of mankind, however it does not deserve this much excitement," the Uzbek, with his helmet and googles over his face now, clears his throat. A naive sort of confidence fills the spaces in between his breathing and briefing. "As I was saying, it deploys five sub-grenades through penetrable structures, be it wall, window, door or floor. Once pierced onto destructible surface, and then primed like so, it's ready to go," he pulls the thin metal pin out of the four-legged explosive device. I adore the blatant power sustained by the compact apparatus, and kind of wish I had some kind of similar portable gadget--one that can deliver maximum damage to attackers in a targeted area. I dwell in imagination, in awe, in expectation. If I had those babies, I'd call them babes. Redundant or clever?

Everyone in the room takes a fearful step back, ready to evacuate before the blast can wreak havoc. Still resolved, the Uzbek continues his clear-cut lesson, "A flashing red light will indicate you have to get shit out of there in less than five seconds. Is that correct way of saying?"

"You're off your bloody rocker! It's live, Fuze! Live!" Baker shouts. Mad eyes, rabid gestures. "And, it's 'fuck' not 'shit'. But that does not matter if we're dead anyways, right?! What in the--"

"It's clear. I just show you how it looks, not how it kills," the Uzbek lets out a muffled snicker as he justifies the act. "If this were loaded, you would not have had chance of saying obscene words at all." A smirk, I sense, is manifesting freely on his concealed mouth.

"Goddamn hilarious, aren't you? Think you're such a hotshot with your toxic tech. If you weren't on the team, I'd have offed you before the blinking red light could flash a second time," an aggressive tone from Baker rasps the rigid atmosphere. Everyone can view the proof of how the two don't exactly get along--in the long run, pettiness like this might compromise us.

"That is uncalled for, but, you are free to try, although . . . you are bound to fail." There hovers hoarse belligerence in between the Uzbek aliased Fuze, and Baker nicknamed as Thatcher. Air is dense with venom, clogging the already hesitant alliance.

"I suggest you both stand down. This is unnecessary, and relatively--no, largely disappointing. Act like how you're trained to act," I speak with a scratchy voice struggling to make its presence known and significant enough to be heeded.

The wrinkles at the far edges of his face are accentuated. A low tone similar to a growl disturbs the area; Baker shifts his gaze from irritated to hostile. "Lad, know your place. Those who in quarrels interpose, must often wipe a bloody nose."

"Learn to shut your trap or sit this one out, second-in-command. How about you learn your place? I'm advising you now: old, young, it's never too late to learn some manners," I shoot back with a hardened look, undaunted and daunting.

He steps back, humbled and tamed. The exaggerated hatred for electronics has fogged up his once unbiased vision. Now, he's shaken awake, no longer blinkered, and is back with his professional mien. "Duly noted, that," Baker speaks, in whisper, scratching his ashen head. "I'll be wiser with my attitude." His head is low, a weighty shadow sits upon it, as he attempts to hide a childish glare directed at the Uzbek. Fuze scoffs in response, tucking away the Matryoshka into an empty box on a shelf.

I grab both Fuze and Thatcher's gloved right hands, and coerce them into a miserable armistice of a handshake. Sighing and not letting go, I clear up, "Make up at once, and resume the debate for a later time, because break's over. Let's pack up and double-check."

We throw our signature S10 NBC respirators over our faces, grim but determined. We fasten the zip of our tactical vests, entrusting our lungs and heart to their durability. The two-point quick-adjust slings hooked onto our L85A2s are hoisted over our shoulders, and around our torsos. We respire sharp inhales and drawn out exhales, feeding ourselves with reserve courage. The map is embedded onto our minds, obliging us into believing we've been there a thousand times. The radios are mounted onto our backs, along with an earbud and a mic; unfamiliar yet friendly tones resound mechanically. There is call-sign Albatross, or Havoc as we NATO boys call it, which is the Mi-28 anti-personnel aerial assist on standby, awaiting our arrival and go-ahead; Deimos, the one-man sniper/spotter team stationed on the third-story balcony of a construction site half a kilometer away from the railway; and lastly, London-Eye, the drone operator way back in headquarters helping the area scanning with its infrared imaging capability. We hear their robotic, grating voices translated through wireless but mediocre connection. I hear them advise us about the two other active ground offence teams, Teams Alpha and Charlie, who are solemn and reliant on our success in the joint operation.

"We bring six cluster charges, however they are still fresh prototypes, so they may malfunction out there. Just in case, we bring flash-bang and normal grenade," Fuze talks, eloquent and frank, as he distributes the portable systems of incendiary devastation. He gives one to each of the rest, and keeps two to himself. "And we're all set. One last going-over though, how is secondary firearm holster for you? Acceptable?"

"Pristine, let's go. No more waiting around," Thatcher answers. A different aura envelops him--one that's unique, dependable and more than vicious.

Sledge nods in approval, whilst clicking and un-clicking the safety of his assault rifle. There is a conflagration in every sleight of hand of his, manifesting some kind of down-to-earth confidence.

"Holster's perfect," Mute asserts, as he inserts the P226 Mk25 into its designated place. Wild eyes replace his blank gaze. I wanted to tell him how he's got the perfect holster for my gun, but that would be a death wish, and I haven't got the time to write a will right now.

"All right," Fuze nods before activating comms for others to hear, "Delta Team activated. Operation Krasnaya Assist is a-go."

The rotor blades oscillate, lacerates the low clouds, and deafen the passengers--us. No protective headphones provided--it's a mere twenty-minute ride. So, our legs dangle at the edge of the steel benches, our heads swing at every gush of violent turbulence, our guns rest serenely on our laps, as the dismal October dictates the dawn not to spark just yet. The rectangular portholes flaunt the cold season's darkness, remind us that three days from now, another freezing month shall bring us closer to perfect winter. The incessant humming of the aerial vehicle pummels the sensitive, adrenaline-soaked senses. Ten minutes. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. I sling the firearm to my back, and watch as the others follow accordingly. Two minutes. One minute. Seconds tick away, berserk and instantaneous. We exit our seats, hold onto the overhead railings for some sparse equilibrium. The trees are swaying outward, making way for our air-to-ground entrance. Combed back, the thin forest looks even more spindly. Patient, composed, I stand near the door, tasting the frigid negative temperature already.

"Change of plan--no LZ. Clear off, Delta," the Pilot screams into the our ears. "Good luck, friends. Kick asses, bring glory."

There came no complaints; the engine noise shoved them down our throats. We ready our rappelling gear promptly. We jump, one-by-one. Group suicide. And once in purgatory, we'll struggle against the shameless devils who wandered in.

The morning dew came before we did. Our combat boots now glisten with tiny droplets, and our soles are saturated with loose mud. The surroundings appear solitary and tranquil, almost trustworthy. But we know better. Nowhere is safe until our bullets neutralize and clear the area. Above, the moon is reigning royalty, the wet months have scared off the fiery sun. We start our trek soon enough--crouched legs guided by one-eyed night-vision headgear. "Delta Team on first location," Fuze alerts the several other offence teams on a stock-still. "Now proceeding to second location. Twenty minutes."

Suppressed clamor of fast and steady paces disrupts the complete stillness of the wispy woods; accustomed to rough and rocky terrain, the hard-working feet almost hover. Laser sights stretch visibly--thin lines of red pointing at sinless tree trunks and waist-high clumps of grass. Neon green and black through one eye, and utter obscurity through the other. An unspoken obligation to not compromise the mission switches on our mastered ability: self-invoked crystallization of the vulnerable flesh. Right now, we hike downhill, bold and untouchable. We're invincible--heightened vision, controlled breaths, pacified pulse, logical thought. With every sound accounted for, every movement judged as either enemy or wind, every passing cloud treated as efficient cover.

"In the building, as they'll give away our positions, we'll pocket the lasers," I remind the armed friendlies whose heads are darting left and right, vigilant for any discernible disturbance. "Keep to the shadows, we will. Like ghosts," I nod to Fuze's direction, taking note of the best course of action which is: to remain unknown until the nick of time, until desperate times.

"Finally, something I like to hear," Thatcher confesses, clearly entertained. "Those red lines would have been our finish lines. Glad as Captain you've learned to obtain some common sense, Smoke."

I get an urge to scratch my head; I can never tell whether he's complimenting or insulting. I mouth a vague 'thanks' as a reply.

"Fuze, that burden on your back--I can carry that for you. I'm an expert at lifting," Sledge suggests, a bit jokingly at the end. He slows down his regular pace to approach the Uzbek who's staggering a few meters behind.

Fuze tilts his head to observe the tall man, and wonders if he should strip himself of pride or torture himself further. There's tiredness in his tone and a hint of instability in his breaths. "Your offer is tempting, however, the shield is mine to suffer," he answers bluntly, and to this Sledge readies himself to disagree. The Uzbek is quick to notify though, "Really, there's no need to worry about me; this is my normal pace."

"Understood. Well, hand it over whenever." Sledge treads beside Fuze, and lets a free hand rest upon the Uzbek's shoulder. "Always pleased to help." His words are dipped in solidarity, and his voice, drenched with self-sacrifice. Lifting the hand of the Uzbek's shoulder, he places it back around the lower receiver of the rifle once more. He picks up his pace, resumes his watchful service.

The sun sleeps lazily, hidden behind the sheer cloak of night. Overhead, the clouds look like fissures, light green rifts in deep green heaven. The hike continues on, voiceless most of the time. Guns are carried weightlessly, with fingertips ghosting over solid triggers.

"All right, Mute?" I catch up to him who's leading the pack. He treats his sutured wounds like shallow scratches. "Don't push yourself."

He relaxes his stiff shoulders, lets his hardened composure dissipate for a while. "I'm apt, sir. Don't concern yourself."

Our brief exchange of useless words conjured up a wanting. I pray for him and me, someday, to be alone and honest. Not secretive and self-conscious.

The stringy forest has evaporated. Marks of modest civilization are pronounced. We enter and trespass through a peaceful suburb whose lawns are neglected, and whose streets are not cemented. Over knee-high wooden fences and prickly wild grass, we skip. Thin telephone poles match the slender, garden trees that blur the vision somewhat with their bushy leaves. The main road is materializing in front of us gradually--the narrow, tarnished road littered with a couple of parked family cars. Beyond the sandy asphalt and the noiseless residential area, are patches of dead grass, crushed pebbles, and outstretching train tracks. A bit further, the colossal building under siege stands, unconquered. Large arched windows of humdrum design, disregarded flower boxes, and crow-infested open roof. Above the main entrance, Lgov-Kievsky is written in Cyrillic.

There are three armored trucks veiled in smooth black, stationed west in front of the building. There is a static tank on the other side. Medic vans are immobile a bit further down the road, a safe distance away from the commotion.

The cover of darkness is disintegrating. Daybreak is pouring through the sky's interstices.

"Delta Team on position two," Fuze alerts the munitioned helicopter circling the close perimeter. "Albatross, confirm visual."

"Confirmed, Delta. Stand-by until go from Alpha." The response came quickly; the Russian accent is apparent. Once more, the operator sighs into the comms, "This is crap, you know. Why am I here if I don't get to shoot LMG freely? Why I need to wait for your signal?"

"It's hostage situation, bratan. You're here for intimidation, and as last resort like Charlie over there," Fuze replies in a lax manner, comfortable with communicating with his peers. He observes the stationary tank dangerously near the venue, and I hope, just like me, he prays for the command to never permit the firing of that element of careless massacre.

"Whatever," the other operator shrugs him off with a low, unsatisfied grunt. "Alpha, where the hell are you?" he shouts into the mic, and everyone's right ear suffers the same fate.

"Blyat, bratan! Don't hog comms," Fuze exclaims, almost losing his trademark coolness.

Another person speaks into the radio, "Alpha here. You're good to go, Delta. We're re-positioned, to your left, for a clearer view. See us?" To their direction, we turn our lowered heads, trying to perceive some movement. The low-lying overpass to the west of the station hovers above the empty train tracks. Their prone positions are barely noticeable, but if daylight were to seep through the horizon, their trusted scopes would reflect it, and betray them. "From here, we halt outside activity while you're inside playground."

"We see you. Do your best, Alpha. No mistakes," I say, sincerely. If they were to fail, flanking from behind is inevitable. A mumbled but strong-willed agreement comes through.

The tiny jagged rocks feel like a massage underneath our thick heels. All of our motivations are being injected into the loaded, scorching gun's rickety trigger, as we approach the roof-covered west-side entrance, which is the back-door of the ticket office. We see the side exterior's four rectangular pillars of the same lurid green tint. We see the square windows different from the front-side's arched ones. Just like the pictures, the blueprints, the assault plan.

We've divided Lgov-1-Kievsky into six main parts. Three vertical, three horizontal. Vertically, we've got the central roof, second floor interior balcony and first floor open area. Horizontally, concerning only the first floor, we have the west-side ticket offices with a back-room dedicated for security; the marble-floored waiting area void of benches; and the east-side conjoined cafe and kiosk. The procedure is top-down clearing. From the inside balcony first, then the rest of the vulnerable ground space next. The roof is in Alpha's hands. So, all we needed to do was to simply climb the stairs, shoot some suppressed ammunition, then climb back down again. It sounded logical enough--yes, rational enough, that I can imagine us able to keep our lives until the very end, where we exfil from the station with freed hostages.

We check the windows, aware for any shifting shadows. I gesture for the rest to follow my lead, and hug the brick walls. The air bites at the clothed flesh, helping me understand no matter how much I believed in my invincibility, I'll always be human. So, I cock my head slightly, prepared for silent breaching. The person opposite to me nods his head, it's Sledge. He turns the door knob, rattles it a bit, before affirming that it's locked. Mute comes forward with a pair of lock picks, and finishes the job swiftly, without jeopardy.

We don't kick it open. We don't let our footsteps resound heavily like a marching band. There are things on the line. Things cherished, things to want to cherish for a long time. As ghosts of sharpened instincts, we enter the house of the living dead. A noise scratches the ear--a chilling and straightforward voice reverberates out the radio, "This is Deimos. Careful approach. I spot five or seven tangos ahead; don't shoot yet."

"We'll take them down," I reassure the fretting sniper. In a short and cramped hallway meters away from the glassy ticket booths, the team makes a brave push.

"I said don't shoot. No sure number of encounter," the sniper insists a little too importunately. To this reply, Fuze comes at him fully charged.

"If you could be any more of a bitch, Glazkov, you'd be currency in prison," the Uzbek's cool but thorny voice echoes in all our ears. "Shut up and let us do our business."

Forced down laughter is stuck in our throats. The sniper chokes back words, keeps secret the amount of offence he's taken. And we tread on, mercilessly. Thatcher and Sledge simultaneously gun down the two further back, so as to not alert the four other tangos standing nearby. The bullets slice through the air like a cruel whisper, and thuds of collapsing bodies follow accordingly. The elimination of the other four is decisive--a simple chore.

Now, we part ways. Halved into two groups for effective clearing. First group with me ascends a level, leaving behind the second group tasked to extinguish any left out hostility in the ticket center and its CCTV room. I advance, with the clutch of adrenaline tugging at my limbs. Sledge and Thatcher follow my inaudible footsteps headed upstairs. Mute and Fuze inspect the hollow area, attentive and quick to draw their weapon.

Halfway up, I hear Mute mutter under his breath, "Sir, we found bombs. Planted under the chairs."

I think. But nothing comes to mind. Should we leave it there? Should we come back and defuse it? It'll mess up the set timeline. I'm not cut out at all for this decision-making part of being a squad leader.

"I can defuse it. Under five minutes, sir," Mute's resolved tone stirs me into the present, the high-risk, volatile present. I listen to him, offer my full attention. "I'll catch up. It's your call, Captain."

"Two minutes, maximum. Keep your focus," I tell him. My hands around the rifle quiver slightly, out of the blue. "I'm counting."

"Aye, sir. I'll be with you soon."

The last words I hear before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are absent, I couldn’t exist!  
> If you are absent, a rain – a drought;  
> If you are absent, Moskva – a mist,  
> If you are absent, a heat – a cold.
> 
> If you are absent, a flesh – a year,  
> as if time’s milled to the atoms’ lot;  
> if you are absent, the heaven here  
> hangs like the icy and stony vault.
> 
> I do not know, as knew before,  
> strengths of my foes, weakness of friends;  
> I do not want to wait anything more,  
> only your always invaluable steps. 
> 
> [Nikolai Nikolaievich Aseev - The Simple Lines]


	4. Later Can Be A Long Time

"Do you know how to play chess in the dark?"  
  
Choosing not to meet his unpleasant gaze, I land my eyes on the importunate flame licking the bronze tobacco. Black flakes peel and dip onto the marble finish of the square ashtray. His question ignites no interest in me, just like the image of this stinking cigar's tedious disintegration. "No, sir."  
  
"Didn't think so. That's the sort of strategy game only people like me can play."  
  
I don't break out of my inattentive shell; I remain rooted in my seat, with ears deaf and eyes numb. His words pass straight through me--like moonlight to a ghost in the night. I fasten my mouth together with a lethargic humility, sending this croaking corpse of a man into a one-sided conversation with himself in this office reeking of psychopathy and burnt wood.  
  
"Sometimes, it's a blessing, a type of luxury. Most of the time, a curse. _Now, quintessentially,_ with me pitted against opponents of unsure quantity. _Now, indeed particularly,_ this game I've practiced for countless years has become a malediction for me. And I'm _compelled_ to place my utmost trust in my bishops, horses and pawns--these incompetent pieces that can't even achieve the tasks they're built to do. They fail, they disappoint, they thwart. Over and over again, shamelessly. Deviating from orders, sabotaging the tasks' completion, abandoning their posts to move into positions where they're not allowed to be--they're disloyal, faulty and, worst of all, unrepentant. How can I win this game now? Without anything remotely useful at my disposal?"  
  
The surface of my boots are in want of a polishing. The ground beneath my heels are awfully light in contrast to my unwashed fatigues. I observe the hard cement--its monotone gray blanketed with specks of dust that sparkle once sent in the air by a soft sigh. Whilst the Director rambles on, I pretend to contemplate, listen, react. In reality, I'm counting the several dozens of muddy smears on the dirty shoes I've battered down from training excessively, from wanting to become a better version of myself, physically speaking. No harm in that, in fact, it's a win-win. I get stronger than ever before, and my mind is entirely occupied. During those gut-wrenching amounts of push-ups and pull-ups, those incessant sprints around the O-courses, those desensitizing repetitions of circuits, those back and forth trips from armory to shooting range--sensible thoughts are out of the question. I keep myself from deteriorating by distracting myself, but in the night, during the deadly silent hours, when all the sweat and blood has dried, when dinner has been skipped for the nth time, when the lights have been replaced by distant stars, when I find myself alone lying on and not under the blankets, I always end up with the thought of him. Despite the tiredness of the muscles, and the drowning of thought, during those idle moments of rest, I go back to square one. Never knowing what to do, I collapse into sleep, eyes open.  
  
"I'll be honest with you. I've got a towering amount of pride. If I lose one game, I'll demand a rematch," he pauses, and I raise my head up to see him lifting the cigar as it continues to smolder powerlessly. "Naturally, I decide to become a better, more vicious player. But, I realize now that, I am not the one in want of repair--it's the pitifully incapable pieces. And the piece whom I placed my trust in the most was you, Porter." He ends his blabbering for a second, putting the cigar in between his doomed mouth crooked with cracks. A short coughing fit and a gust the same color as his teeth flusters the clean oxygen in the air. "I thought for sure, you'd come home with the gold. I thought wrong, didn't I? You made me lose two games in a row. You came home with tragedy, with failure, with deficiency. You weren't at all ready; you knew the stakes, believed in the objective, but you were afraid of sacrifices. Well, there's no need to give you your marching orders though; the reasonable solution in my view--I'm certain you've gotten the gist already--is demotion. Nobody's to call you Captain for a long while."  
  
I've been sleeping badly, waking up even worse. No matter how much I forget, how much blurred it becomes, the feeling that stirs once I jolt upright in bed stays the same. The same nightmare, over and over, again and again. And I don't know what it's about.  
  
I interpret his words as a permission to leave the premises. Without a moment to waste in this dump, I stand up from my intolerable seat with an expression neutral and harmless. He unlatches his chapped lips once more, freeing the charred voice that eats away at the pinkness of the gums, "Not so fast now. You won't be training for a while either. I don't want to see your sullen look roaming the halls like a vengeful ghost. To be frank with you, Porter, your current attitude's irritating the hell out of me. So, I'm pulling you out of active duty; you're on a three-day leave starting today. Go burn that aimless stamina somewhere else." He seemed like he was spitting out flurries of defunct smoke as he spoke. His hooded gaze averts my existence, believing me worthless, rendering me invisible. "That's all. Now, get the fuck out of my sight."  
  
I step into the corridor, and approach the stairwell with footsteps sounding afloat. A split second decision rumbles. If I can't train and distract myself, better to just face it head-on. Confront it, brave through it, because there's nothing else to do but that. No more hiding, no more deflecting. Determined, I hover to my room to get my wallet, then consult a map to figure out where the nearest train station is.

 

* * *

 

 It's been so long ago since I've sported such casual clothing that I feel so uncomfortable in it. The denim jeans, the black v-neck shirt, the loose jacket--if it weren't for the tiny cuts on my face, the crowd wouldn't take notice of me that much. I must look dangerous to them. Like a rowdy trouble-maker. If only they knew.  
  
The woman behind the booth counterfeits a transparent smile. Her face shows her fear of being replaced by ticket vending machines. "Railcard?" she asks with a high-pitched, practiced tone. I shake my head as a response, deciding not to waste my breath. "That would be £16.80, sir. Or would you like to have a round-trip ticket instead? That one would cost you another ten pounds."  
  
"Former," I manage, my voice hoarse and hesitant. I lean forward, towards the glass panel's speaking tube, not wanting to repeat myself. In a predictable way, I take out my wallet from my back pocket, and hand over to her the required amount. Mechanical arms, instinctive hands, flat expression.  
  
She grants me my change, saying, "Trains to Birmingham arrive every two hours. You're in luck--the next one is in ten minutes from now." Her long fingers slide over the steel counter, pinching the one-way ticket. "Proceed to Platform 1. Feel free to treat yourself to a hot drink, sir. Have a good day," she finishes, gesturing her hand towards the whirring vending machines sitting in a desolate corner, despite there being a perfectly good coffee shop behind me. What in bloody hell is she deducing from my appearance exactly?  
  
"No thanks, I'm sorted." I grab the piece of paper and start on my way. Up the stairs, down gusty corridors, past flocks of people.  
  
The yellow safety boundary is dusty with age and embellished with chewed gum; I stand behind it, anticipating, waiting, with no one to talk to. Idle moments like these poison me, cling to me; these stupidly monotone minutes let the boredom, that's normally subdued by grueling, adrenaline-charged instants, emerge. And I find myself detesting the drudging training sessions I imposed upon myself, and loathing the menial and ultimately meaningless missions I get paid to do; right about now (now that I'm free to do whatever I want) I find myself searching, aching for the cure. The antidote to all this soul-dwelling havoc. The remedy to all this heart-ache. It lies in Birmingham. In the military hospital. Surrounded by vividly green trees and budding flowers that sway in the slightest spring breeze.  
  
A clock chimes. Ten o' clock sharp. The sun is ferocious behind diaphanous clouds, but the temperature is barely above thirteen degrees. Soft winds and mild chatter drift about me, and I feel as if I don't belong. A metallic chiming bell acts as a harbinger for the train's express approach. The vehicle arrives, snaking above rusted tracks, gushing through hurriedly. It slices through the static atmosphere, and forms a swooping wind that ruffles my hair rather aggressively. The interconnected cars painted dandelion yellow and royal blue, approaching the boundary of the train stop, vigilantly slow down.  
  
People with wheeled luggage filter out the slid open doors, and I step to the side, hands in my jeans' pockets. Once there was no one else descending from the economy class car, I promptly make my way to an empty window seat. I lean back into the seat's cushion that's softer than my single bed's pitiable mattress.  
  
The large window beholds the outside's foliage in a smudged manner. I stare into the rippling scenery--the occasional buildings and secluded forests.   
  
And more than two hours pass me by. Speeding through like a millisecond, a blink of an eye. The overhead speakers blare, announcing the punctual arrival at the next station. I realize it's my stop, so I get up from my seat, dust the sleepiness off of my heavy eyelids, and navigate diligently for the way out of this starkly lit crowded space. Managing to push my way through the dense assemblies of civilians with their lovers and children and weathered smiles, I reach the end of the marathon with a drab heart beating languidly.  
  
Without taking the bus for the sake of thriftiness, I jogged to the old hospital about a hundred meters away. From afar, it appeared pristine. Reddish brown bricks, flat roof, nurtured front lawn. But really, the structure is old and dilapidated, merely disguised to be modern. As soon as I'd stopped staring, and recollected some more composure to look appropriate enough, I put on an unyielding expression and push open the glass entrance. The nurse behind the reception desk analyses what's in front of her, and halts whatever it was that she was typing.  
  
"Good afternoon. How may I help you?" her question is asked insincerely, too occupied to actually bother. Darting back and forth, from computer screen to me, is her agile gaze.  
  
"Here to visit someone. I know where the room is--no need to worry," I explain with a voice cold yet genuine, taking the burden off of her shoulders.  
  
A vague smile marks her pink-stained lips. On her front breast pocket is a small name-tag I don't bother to read. "Just sign this up for me. Date, name and signature." She grabs a blue clipboard and a pen before placing it down in front of me, handing over the responsibility. I write it all down with scratchy elementary-looking handwriting: 13th of May, an alias using my real initials, and a fabricated, cursive swirl. Once the pen was let go of by my rough fingers onto the desk, she snatches the clipboard away. "Please, go right ahead. Have a nice stay."  
  
I exit her peripheral vision, enter the halls of white tiles and grayish concrete, pass by wall-suspended chairs occupied by injured first-responders. The ambiance is the lackluster noise of humdrum conversations, and the constant distant beeping and buzzing of medical equipment. The long corridor has several doors kept ajar and looking hospitable; mindlessly peeking through the little gaps, I notice the collections of flower bouquets. Should I have bought one too? Would he have liked that?  
  
At the end of the winding corridor lit by unforgiving lamps, there remains a room kept solitary and shielded from external commotions. I linger in front of the door that probably won't be opened from the inside any time soon. Pondering for a while, I stay suspended in time, debating whether I should knock or not. In the end, I chose to invade privacy. And closed the door behind me softly.  
  
My breath is stuck in my throat, and I treat it as a symptom. But of what? Guilt? Maybe, anger? Or is it sadness? I don't know. He makes me weak. I miss him. But if it weren't for the Director forcing me to have this vacation, I wouldn't have had the strength to visit him.  
  
I pull a chair to the left side of the bed. Gravity coerces me to sit down, and a feeling makes me sink deeper. My hand reaches outward, to search where his was. Again, I hesitate. Should I touch him at all?  
  
His hospital gown is cloudy, his flesh beneath a mist. He's translucent, with the overhead lamps perforating through him so easily. The sutures that were once so evident are now tucked away by his grown out hair. He seems so much at ease; his eyes don't even budge behind his pale eyelids, and the heart monitor wired to his wrist presents such a steady, dreamless rate. Behind the oxygen mask, his nose and mouth are hidden away. I wonder what the color of his lips are now. I wonder, if they're delicate or dry, soft or chapped, pink or blue, healed or bruised. But really, I couldn't care less. I just want him to wake up.  
  
I hold his hand, squeeze it lightly, thinking to myself it would affect him in some enigmatic way. Nothing happens, everything in this particular hospital room's been the same for six months now. From the merciless lighting, the murmuring equipment, the vanishing wallpaper, the absence of flowers, the sleeping FNG sustained by tubes and apathetic nurses. It's suspended in time, asleep with him. So I decide I should too. I should join the silent party. Leaning back into the chair, I doze off and allow my head to recline against the wall behind me. I pull his hand closer to me, and rest our interlaced fingers on my lap. I don't let go of him, however traumatic the nightmare. However turbulent the inside of my drowsy mind.  
  
"Aye, sir. I'll be with you soon--"  
  
Another voice overlapped with Mute's rather unnervingly. "This is Alpha. New situation is improving. Hostages are being released. Twelve women, eight children." The earpieces we wore vibrated, and we exchanged glances. A few seconds of pondering passed by, before the troop leader stationed at the overpass reported, "Moving in to safeguard non-combatants. We won't be covering your backs for a bit, Delta."  
  
"Copy that, Alpha," I murmured into the mic, keeping the conversation succinct and precise. The objective hasn't changed. It stood: neutralize the opposition within the building; sweep the asphyxiating dust that is the terrorist militia. "Albatross, how's the view out there?"  
  
"It's good, or maybe still bad. Not sure about any of this, English. The civilians are tiptoeing out of doors. Can't see any tango so far--from up here, that is," he stops, perhaps to analyse the situation more accurately. Suddenly, worry became an undertone to his Russian accent and strictly low voice. "The civilians appear to be wearing vests. Bulletproof."  
  
My team advanced upstairs, one step at a time, with hollow boots and overflowing lungs. The heart rate is kept at a pace acceptable, far from deafening. We listened to the Mi-28-bound operator and his watchful recounting. I summoned every bit of keenness within me to keep track of everything currently happening. Fuze and Mute were still on the first level defusing remote-detonation bombs with only forty seconds left for them; Thatcher, Sledge and I progressed efficiently on the main stairs to the second floor balcony, taking down stray enemy agents regularly without giving away our otherwise vulnerable positions; and we'd just been told hostages were being freed at this moment, so I looked out a nearby window to verify. They weren't lying--the situation was evolving.  
  
"Why do you think that is so, Glazkov?" the Uzbek who's supposed to aid Mute with the nullifying of planted explosives talks freely, filling in the radio silence with his inquiry to the hushed sniper whose call-sign he hastily ignored.  
  
"I don't know as well. There was no negotiation as far as I know. Maybe they are surrendering, but why so suddenly?" There was agitation in the mechanical resonance of Deimos' voice.  
  
"Whatever goes down keep us posted, Albatross, Deimos," I suggested, whilst pulling the trigger, confirming the seventeenth silenced kill. Ducked behind the stairs' cemented railings, I reloaded a new magazine into the firearm.  
  
Some more seconds burn out, and a couple more patrolling tangos wandered into our cross-hairs just to meet their end. An estimate of fifteen to twenty hostiles were left--a manageable quantity, but the night was no longer young. The darkness of dusk was gradually receding, letting daylight flow uninterruptedly. To this, an unspoken consensus made everyone remove their respective night-vision head-gears. Without it, I noticed how the barred glass windows were being conquered by the October sun's leisurely ascent.  
  
It's 07:15 hours. The external assault teams Alpha, Charlie, Albatross and Deimos would have a clearer view of the unanticipated scenery from the sunrise, so we, who lodged within the blood-splattered playground, sat tight, waiting for their cues. Kill time--that's all we could do, aside from killing enemy personnel.  
  
In a fit, something erupted. Immediate. Click. Burst. An outbreak broke out on the field bathed in soft light, the front lawns of the train station. There came ear-splitting shrieks, desperate screams, gut-wrenching howls. Women, and children. The echoes of their footsteps were heavy, unstable and frightened. There was panic--I could almost feel it for myself. It was circling, embracing the atmosphere, suffocating all rational thought. They were running, staggering, crawling. I could imagine their gazes, stripped of dignity and rimmed with terror. I could smell the blood, the brutal iron scent, rising up into the air, dyeing the morning dew red. We waited for the other teams to notify us. We were irrelevant right about now, possibly not even helping at all.  
  
"Deimos here, see no hostiles. Alpha, good to go."  
  
"This is Alpha, rushing in for rescue. Delta, stay optimal. Albatross, cover us, but do not open fire. Too risky."  
  
"How exactly-- Fine, okay, LMG is mounted and ready to not do anything it was made to do."  
  
The high-pitched voices were incessant--it's like they're desperately trying to wake up this neighborhood's already evacuated inhabitants. Continuous manic blazing behind eyelids, and saline tears hitting the concrete. Even inside the building Alpha team's loud advising reverberated. They talked in their mother tongue, trying to calm the hysteric crowd, but also effectively get them to safety fast. I imagined them, breathless and worried, their masks not making it easy for them to remind the fearful civilians that they were friendly. I could almost see them, clutching strongly the arms of the women and children whose knees were too weak for their own frail bodies to depend on. We waited to be notified. Nothing was sure, it was in the balance.  
  
"Albatross, we need you to open fire! They are strapped with C-4, I repeat, the hostages are strapped with C-4," he shouted into the comms. Their retreating steps hammered through the earpiece, sounding very much like a frenzied heartbeat. "Open fire! Now! Targets are the hostages! Targets are the--"  
  
During the earlier hours of day, when the dark still reigned, there was peace. Once the day broke into view, and the sky parted in half to present a brand new horizon, it all retracted into a concentrated disarray. It's a mess out there, to put it simply. There were bombs slung around the torsos of the hostages. Alpha team was not a bomb-defusing experts team. There weren't a lot of options, and if there were, it needed something important that no one, at that moment, had: time. They could have sent specialized ops, but that would've taken a quarter or even half an hour. They could have stripped the hostages of the explosives themselves, but that would have required much more precision and care, because that was not what they were trained to do. The biggest problem wasn't that the the explosives were locked in place, but that they could be detonated from afar. At any given moment.  
  
"--hostages! No time, don't think, just fire! Damage the C-4 belts! Don't let them get close!" the Alpha team's leader yelled into the comms. His will to live was scorching, almost contagious. Vehement gunfire and fervent screeching--the background noise to his almost incomprehensible shouting.  
  
Albatross strafed the face of the train station. Chains of consistent gunshots showered the naked ground below. It was pandemonium that soon reverted into a silence, dead and pathetic and hollow. All of Alpha team was KIA from uncontrolled detonations. Charlie team stationed across the street, past the asphalt road beside the rusty tracks, was untouched and useless.  
  
We were rooted in our ground, waiting, waiting, waiting. "This is Deimos, militia rotating to flank you, Delta team. From the direction of the overpass."  
  
No time for hesitation. "Shoot, Deimos. Decimate them," I said, in a murmur vengeful and quiet. "Fuze, Mute. Time's up, lads. What's your situation?"  
  
"All bombs disabled, sir," a soft voice rattled the earpiece--Chandar's. His careful murmur rung of worry, and I hated how I could tell just by his voice that he was frowning. "But our rotation's compromised. Tangos pouring in. No way out."  
  
"They know we are here. We will hold out best we can, but no guarantees," Fuze added, sounding a bit concerned.  
  
I bit my lower lip, beating myself up with what I should do next. There were too many factors influencing the original plans. The objective became more and more ambiguous by the second. A bit too much for me, to be frank. I was no competent leader, just an assertive thrill-seeker. "Three minutes. Can you handle it? We're pushing forward without you."  
  
"Of course. Matryoshka will do the trick," Fuze answered, much more confident this time. And I trusted him.  
  
Thatcher led the pack now; Sledge and I followed behind him. He's stopped his casual cursing long time ago, by now he was as silent as the situation outside which made itself apparent to us once we'd passed a couple of large windows. No condolences were said, however our heads did shake at the grotesque and tragic sight. We turned our focus ahead. Efficiently, we cleared out the balcony. Thuds from incapacitated bodies echoed like some kind of twisted melody, bleeding and disturbing. Looking down from the makeshift veranda occupying all four sides of the murder house, we took control of the open waiting area below. Vertical pressure was established, and saying it was overwhelming for the terrorists would be an understatement. They couldn't fight back. The second they'd crane their heads upward, and try to aim their weapons at us, they'd be eliminated with acute precision. It was looking good for now.  
  
"Delta, this is Deimos. Exterior of playground is cleaned up," Deimos' voice reports in the comms. "But I spot five bombers, incoming from kiosk, on first floor. They are getting desperate. Stay sharp."  
  
How much explosives did these Tangos haul exactly? This was an abnormal set-up. It's suicide and sacrifice, but for what? "Deimos, don't stop shooting at movement until you've exhausted your ammo. Fuze, Mute. Don't lose touch," I say through gritted teeth, eyes with a sharpened glare.  
  
The three minutes disappeared, went up with the smoke that exited the muzzle.  
  
And after came a blot in time, a puncture in my impeccable memory. I lost consciousness; I might've blacked out from a nearby explosion, or might've been hit by a stray bullet. Fortunately, Thatcher automatically resumed the command.  
  
I put pressure on my neck, the source of pain and dripping liquid. It was something colored like wine, but thicker and annoyingly warmer. My eyes were veiled over by fatigue and actual smoke, but I could at least make out that the location was different from before. We were situated on the first floor, east-side--the cafe and kiosk adjoined area was our fortress. "Don't move. Don't talk. Stay still. They got us," Thatcher leaned closer to ascertain that I could hear his shouting. He haphazardly tied gauze around my neck, attempting to keep the escaping blood inside my system. I saw a shallow pool of it beside me. "Charlie's done in, turns out they were just for show. They're in town now, fending off the media. And Albatross? Bird's got no ounce of fuel left. Since you got hit, Deimos has been pissing himself. Can't blame him--we're snookered," he smiles despairingly. "Any last words that can make me laugh, lad?"  
  
I let my back slam against the wall as I sat myself upright, swatting away Thatcher's helping hand. Anxiously, I blinked away the dust stinging my eyes. "I'm thirty-five, not a lad no more," I coughed out.  
  
"Good one, mate. Congratulations," he shot back sarcastically, his back turned towards me. "Anyways, we're out on a limb here. We've got an operator down." He loads one of his four remaining magazines into the gun. A grenade went off from a distance, and he had to duck behind the bar counter before returning fire. "Mute's west-side. We can't reach him. As you can see, we're being blasted."  
  
The stinging pain was still there, feeling like heated needles on my flesh. I crouched behind the old man, trying to observe what's beyond the counter we both hid behind. Some newspaper as well as postcard stands have fallen. Novelties and magazines strewn on the ground had some scattered small fires. The shop was a dangerous wreck, and it would seem that we were trapped in here. "Wh-what happened to Mute?" I stuttered, my voice still unfamiliar. "Can you contact him?"  
  
"Ambushed by a lunatic bomber," the words scraped his throat with irritation, "Fuze scarpered, left him. Our Uzbek joined in with Charlie to take a stroll in the town. And, no, we tried. Lots of times. Radio's jammed."  
  
I readjusted my mask, tightened the erratic bandages, calculated how much time it would take to get from point A to point B. The L85A2 felt a bit heavier in my hand this time; it knew that what was at stake was much more personal than before, so with the safety offed, I pulled the charging handle of the assault rifle more cautiously. I palmed my ammo pouches: only three full magazines left. "I'll go fetch Chandar. Got my back, old gaffer?" I said with a dry throat--my voice sounding afraid, when in reality, it's never been so determined.  
  
Thatcher halted his firing to turn to me, and regard me with awe. "You incredibly nutty wanker! What in the hell exactly are you planning to do?"  
  
I started slinking behind cover, distancing myself farther and farther away from him. "I'm planning to go fetch Chandar. He needs help. I need him alive."  
  
"Emergency exfil's in less than ten minutes. But, sure, why not?" Thatcher shook his head, but understood that he could not stop me no matter what he'd say. With a sigh, he yelled, "Sledge, flash and frag out. This right barmy bastard needs a bit of good service."  
  
"Aye, no problem," Sledge responded swiftly. Taking notice of the huge gash on my neck shielded by dirtied bandages, he added under his breath, "I knew it. Courage does grow strong at a wound." Then he duly acted upon command--pulled out a flashbang and a grenade before throwing them one after the other. Through the ear-splitting noise and conflagration, he shouted briskly, "Go get 'im. If disaster betides, just count on us."  
  
The heart raged with seething blood that the body impatiently demanded. Exhales and inhales rang stably within lungs kept intact and reliable even with the isolated explosion's hot smoke. I endured the incomprehensible havoc, sauntered upon fire with persevering feet, fought my way through this hellish circus, because I had to come all the way to the other side. Past the marble floors and collapsed chandeliers. Past the reflective shards, concrete debris, empty shells, and gored bodies. Past everything inanimate and everything trying to take my life. I had to get to him. We had to talk. We had to talk somewhere quiet.  
  
Somewhere quiet where I could hear him. Not here, of all places. Not here. Please, don't let it be here. Don't let us talk here.  
  
It didn't take too much time to get to the backroom of the ticket offices. The carpets were stained red, littered mostly with terrorist fatalities and dropped firearms. The lights were flickering, like day and night, passing you by in the blink of an eye. And underneath that intermittent flashing of light and dark, I saw him statue-like on the floor; fallen stools and insignificant papers beside him, glass shards all over his tactical uniform. The culprit to his incapacity lay helplessly dead on the other side of the room with a detonator stuck in between his fingers. I moved to him, not understanding whether it was fear or sadness eating away at my insides.  
  
"Chandar," I managed to call out. I knelt on one knee beside him, my hand hovering reluctantly. Unsure. Frightened. Regretful.  
  
"Fall . . . back," he spat out, hurting and on the verge of disappearing. "Porter," he said, thin voice laced with blood.  
  
I frowned, wincing at how pained he mentioned my name. Finally, my hand progressed towards his wrist, and felt for his weak pulse. "Don't speak. Not now."  
  
"Just go," he snapped back, with anger streaking his words unusually. A saturated cough cracked his throat as he shoved my hand away. "Wounds . . .  are reopened. You can't stay-- No use, just leave me." His split lungs labored, his heart faltered by the moment, his respirator obscured true intentions.  
  
I was becoming more and more distressed, and he was casually getting on my nerves. This proper bastard's doubting the necessity for his survival. "Don't speak, that's an order this time," I told him sharply, sliding down the zipper of his protective vest carefully to reveal his torn blood-soaked fatigues.  
  
"Porter, I don't want you--" he coughed and winced at the contracting of his stomach. A few seconds burned in his throat, raked at his flesh like a blade, and threatened to completely sever all his sutures. But he recollected himself. He braved through the ripping agony. "I don't want you to see me like this."  
  
I placed the weight of my hands on his torso, but the profuse bleeding was a stubborn pain in the arse. It just kept slipping through my fingers. "Look here, I'm not going anywhere." I explained, desperate for him to understand, but at the same time, abashed enough to not clarify. "And you aren't either. So, stay with me."  
  
He sighed and heaved and hacked disastrously. The malfunctioning light bulbs overhead as well as the creeping sunrise were disconcerting him further into unconsciousness, that I simply fancied for the darkness to take over once more. Because then we'd be concealed. And then I could probably say whatever I wanted. But everything was against us, and we were but sacrificial pawns with no say at the end of the day. "Stay with you? Cheesy bastard . . . You asking me to live, or something else?" he attempted to exhale a soft laugh, but was only able to breath out a sigh rinsed with fading wakefulness.  
  
So I laughed for him, whilst replying, "I can tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."  
  
His tense body soon started to relax, disregarding the jabbing pains all over. "Don't muck about like that now, " he chuckled, his tone seemingly calm but honestly was rather nervous.  
  
"How about you don't tell me what to do, and start doing what I tell you to do then?" I retaliated, agitated, as I could perceive how I was not aiding that much with his body's devastating circumstances. I could tell, from my lack of first aid materials and expertise, that the only sensible deed for me to perform was to preserve his wavering consciousness, and just wait patiently for reinforcements. The frown on my face worsened, as did the present. "Don't talk, stay awake."  
  
Suddenly, he landed his hand on top of mine. His fingers slowly led themselves in the gaps of mine, in a manner clumsy and eager. Instinctive and fervent. And I wanted to intertwine my fingers with his too, but his wounds were too deep and his life was waning precariously. "Can I . . . tell you something?" he whispered, faint yet daring, "I like talking to you." And I wasn't able to react, because I was too absorbed in trying to keep his ruined body from halving. He continued with a raspier voice doused in the venom of near-death, "Do you feel the same?"  
  
His hand released its grasp around mine.  
  
And I decided to keep the answer to myself, because he wouldn't hear me anyway.  
  
The fractured lights stopped blinking with the sun's complete rise. Waves of slight warmth and thin light rays were seeping in through the breached glass windows. The foreign shouting along with panicked weapon-firing of the opposing forces subsided like an ebbing tide, giving way to the chirping of nestling birds, distant droning of rotor blades, and sirens of the rushing medic vans.  
  
On the comms, Thatcher's voice thrummed, manic and worried, insisting on me to communicate the state I was in. But the betrayed feeling drowned out my voice, coerced me into a pathetic silence. And I couldn't move for a short while, numb and plunged in disbelief. But once realization got rid of my shock, I did my best not to let his hand fall limp onto the ground.  
  
Fingers interwoven again, with tough fabric separating our bare skin. But, it was good enough. I was the only one holding on, but it was good enough. So, I waited for the medics, waited for the back-up, waited for the second-wave assault for clean-up.  
  
And, soon enough, I wake up. Another aperture in my timeline appears, with me forgetting how my dream went. The usual bitter sentiment that would typically dismantle me from the inside, strangely wasn't felt this time around. So, I go about normally, blink the rest of the sleepiness away, and try to adapt to the stark lighting casually. I notice there's more people in the room than I can remember.  
  
Cowden and Baker are sitting opposite each other, playing cards and drinking scotch on the tiled floor. The bets in between them are a mixture of money and fresh cigarettes. Before I can even complain, Baker reflexively takes notice of the recent changes around him. He turns his head towards me, and exclaims in a carelessly loud voice, "'Bout time, Porter! You got Chandar waiting." Despite having a terrible hand, a foolish grin brightens up his ashen face. "We thought you'd caught his coma."  
  
Instantly, it felt natural to crane my head to the side. Well, there he was--raw, natural and holding back a soft laugh. A glass of water in his right hand, resting still on his blanketed lap. My eyes travel, and I recognize immediately the flushed cheeks spotted with stray freckles. I feel the lightness of his gaze, and the imperfection of his lips. I trace with my wandering glance every waking detail, every breath-taking feature on his calm expression. Hastily, my apathetic attitude deconstructs, and I'm filled to the brim with ecstasy. "James Porter, nice to see you again," he confesses, his voice harmonious and cordial, his look pleasant and without a trace of dishonesty.  
  
An unconscious, uncontrollable smile influences my mouth. "You fucking bastard. Think that's clever?" I jokingly shoot back at him, with my grin getting brighter by the second. To this he chuckles lightly, and I shiver at the sheer beauty.  
  
"You two need a moment, seems that way, don't it? We're off for a bit then," Baker interrupts the absent-minded back-and-forth between Chandar and me. He shifts in his seat and without another second wasted, he was on his feet along with a giggling Cowden. "I'll be knocking twice. That's the cue, lads," the old man winks before taking his leave. Cowden follows, his smirk plastered permanently on his face. And it was then that I noticed that I was still holding Chandar's hand.  
  
Heat splashes on my cheeks, and I gulp down the embarrassment. Enduring the childish shyness, I refuse to unclasp my grip. To my side, Chandar bites his lower lip with his gaze lowered.  
  
The door shuts tightly behind the two operators as their idle chatter echoes in the hallway vaguely. The breeze leaking in through the cracked window pane resonates like a chilly, thoughtless whisper. Again, I'm out of words to say, despite there having so much to talk about. But left alone together, even without the small talk, it feels enough.   
  
But it doesn't feel right. So, I breathe out a defeated sigh, derailing from the wonderful present. I gather up courage, prepare myself for a lot of explaining to do, because I don't want misunderstanding to fuck it all up again. "Alright, let's pause right here. I want to tell you, that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you wander out there. Wasn't thinking clearly that time, and how could I have known, right? The mission became too convoluted, too harsh for an amateur like me to handle. You got caught in a snare, and I should've been able to pull you out in time, but that wasn't the case. I failed to keep you safe. I regret that."  
  
"Truthfully, I don't give a toss about that," he halts my statement eagerly, and allows his own voice to overpower the atmosphere.   
  
I stare dumbly at him for a while before replying, "Well, that's news to me."  
  
He looks at me blankly, abstrusely. A nervous beating in my chest reverberates, worrying if I'd said something wrong. Slowly, he decides to speak again, with a tone more collected than mine, "Porter, you know you're rather bad with words. Worse than me even."  
  
"Well, you're not wrong," I assure him, with a foolish smile on my face, relieved to hear that he can comprehend my troubles in vocalizing my complicated feelings.  
  
A fleeting moment where naught betides cools the tense atmosphere, and the room transforms into a comfortable refuge once again. But then he tugs on my hand, and then pulls me towards him, rather aggressively. So I follow simply, let myself be dragged onto the edge of the bed meant for one, and take a seat adjacent to him. No space in between us now. Shoulders grazing, elbow to elbow. Necks dangerously near, intentions becoming more and more apparent to the point where restricting oneself turns into a conscious chore.  
  
"I just need you to tell me about this one thing--if being with me really is unbearable for you, Porter," Chandar's voice is playful and unafraid, and his heated breath caresses the ear almost too suggestively, "That's the only thing I want to know."  
  
I retaliate a bit defensively with, "When did you stop being taciturn, Chandar?" And I realize, despite me having acknowledged my feelings towards him, and no matter how much courage I succeed to muster, I still can't bear to declare it in full disclosure. Frustrated with myself, I force my gaze to avert his, and focus on the foot of the bed instead. In the end, though, it was all in vain; my destruction commenced as soon as he'd placed the glass of water on the bedside table, and immediately took the liberty of cupping my cheek with his free hand to make me face him. My rough skin senses the mild weight of his touch, and I feel as if I don't deserve such a caring gesture. And I had no other option but to beg my heart not to rip my chest open from drumming so impossibly hard.  
  
"I thought I already told you, that I liked talking to you," he smirks easily, freely. The smug look he wears irks me somewhat, stirs within me a tiny desire to dishevel his overconfidence, but I keep my level-headed appearance all the while.  
  
"I guess it's still a pleasant surprise," I murmur, not really thinking clearly, for I'm lost, submerged deep in his gentle eyes--those vibrant blue pools. "I remember the time you won't talk to anyone but the Director. Bit amusing, don't you agree?"  
  
His hand slides off of my face, retreating back to his lap. The smile reverts into neutrality. "No more flying off at a tangent. Just answer me, please," he requests, and instantly, I can tell how important it is to him.  
  
Reluctantly, my mouth opens and tries to roll unsure words off my tongue. But I stop myself in time from making any more unnecessary noise, restrain my voice from mentioning stupid excuses, prevent my mind from fabricating lies. A short-lived eternity gives me the time to resolve the internal dilemma. And I finally understand, that it's not words that are going to help, but actions. The truth lies in movement. In impulse. In immediacy. Not in premeditated, practiced confessions.   
  
I snatch his hand resting peacefully on his lap, and kiss it softly. My lips brush against pale fingers trained to hold onto thorns without flinching even once. And yet he appears to falter for a brief  moment, weakened and dazed from the unexpected act of intimacy. "I'm sorry. That's just what I do. Like you said," I say in a hushed tone as I angle my head to the side; mere centimeters away from his lips, I resume rabidly, "I'm bad with words."  
  
I hear him gulp down warmth and anticipation. I feel him quiver from the sudden realization that our breathing's synchronized. And finally, we share the same searingly rhythmic pulse, with identically pulsating bodies pleading for something to happen. Momentarily, he comprehends what I feel and deciphers what I'm scared to tell. Miraculously, the hidden feeling is requited. "Be quiet then," he dictates, sounding a bit timid but is in actuality undeniably certain with what he wants.  
  
I dive into an illusion come to life. A dream transfigured into a reality. An aching fancy metamorphosed into a tangible actuality. His lips dancing and grazing against mine, soaked and zealous. His one hand clawing at my spine and the other clutching the back of my neck. It's sheer vehemence, burning the veins like another form of adrenaline--one that's more innocent, more vulnerable, more delicate. So I test the fragility of the shallow kiss, and experiment freely. I bite his lower lip, and he groans helplessly. His fingers stroke my nape and trace my jaw ardently. And I let him know that I'm smirking, but it just makes him even more needy. His tongue pushes into my mouth, breaking through the wet barrier, and begins to wrestle with mine. He lets me take over eventually, allows me to explore and experience his saturated warmth, and his moans begin to encircle our anguished, fevered embrace. With lungs ablaze and avid eyes--I don't think I'll be able to keep myself together if this keeps up.  
  
We stop to catch our breaths, establish distance a mere inch away from each other. His oblivious hands tug at my shirt slightly and comb through my hair naively, convincing me even further how endlessly better this is compared to private lustful daydreams. With my forehead resting upon his own, I see his half-open eyes, crystal clear, euphoric and pure, shielded nicely by straight lashes drenched slightly by tears. "I could die right now, Chandar. You're beyond heavenly, you know that?" I whisper unto his bruised mouth, and a millisecond after, lively red hues flourish on his cheeks more profoundly than ever.  
  
"You're unbelievable, James," he chuckles softly, caressing my lips with the faint sound of his tender voice.   
  
And I'm automatically overwhelmed with ecstasy from his innocence. So, I brush my lips discreetly over his, stealing another kiss that's much more delicate this time. I take my time to tease him slow, take note of every little sound escaping his honest mouth, before suddenly making my way to his neck, exciting him even more. He calls out my name rather devilishly, as I leave a trail of doused kisses along his jawline. And to be completely honest, he was driving me into absolute madness. From the salacious sighs, racy murmurs and risque motions. He's such an excruciating pleasure.  
  
"James," he exhales weakly. I pretend not to hear at first. "James," he repeats, a bit more clearer this time, but I still continue planting petal-like marks on his bare neck. "James, bloody hell. Someone's at the door."  
  
"Ain't this a fucking violation of rights," I mutter hoarsely, sitting upright with a frustrated body part. Chandar observes my dissatisfied frown and lets out a breathy laugh. Defeated, I sink back into the metal chair, wiping my mouth in the process.  
  
"Porter, be a good mate and drive us home, will you? Cowden's scuttled away with a lady nurse somewhere, and left me for good," Baker explicates with a spent voice, stumbling into the room reeking badly of alcohol. "He's not my friend anymore. Now you're going to be his substitute."  
  
Chandar and I exchange knowing glances, agreeing that I should take care of the old man before he gets into drunken trouble. So I turn my head towards Baker leaning against the door frame unsteadily, and reassure him, "No worries, I'll get us to base in a few."  
  
"No, let's leave right now. What time do you think it is? I don't want to wait around anymore. You think you can abuse me like that?" he stammers whilst pointing his finger at me accusingly. Once he'd finished his spluttering, he exits the room groggily, blitzed out of his mind. "I thought we were fucking comrades, you sociopath," his remark echoes in the hall, and reminds me how aggressively bipolar the old man can be during his tipsy moments.  
  
I let out a weary sigh as I stand up from my seat. I feel a hand take a hold of mine gently. "Hey, drive safe," Chandar smiles radiantly, like always. "Good night, James."  
  
I mirror his content expression before leaning in forward to kiss his forehead. "Thanks. I'll see you soon, Chandar."

 

* * *

 

We ended up renting a car, because Baker insisted that public transport was a corporate evil, and I was not in the mood to handle a SAS operator's drunken fit.  
  
"Why did you bring scotch in the first place?" I ask, genuinely curious.  
  
"Celebrating something. Let me remember," Baker tries his best to stay awake for the mundane conversation instead of sleeping away the throbbing headache, "Ah, I believe Cowden and I were drinking to the dismissal of the Director."  
  
With my mouth agape and brows furrowed, I interrogate him further, "He's laid off, you mean? Are you serious? He was there this morning."  
  
Baker reclines his skull on the leather seat's headrest, attempting to discover a comfortable position. "Well, he wasn't there anymore come the afternoon."  
  
I chuckle to myself darkly, allowing the decrepit car to swerve a little from almost sending my gaze off of the dimly lit highway. In response, Baker groans and passionately complains incoherently. "Poor son of a bitch."  
  
"Don't fucking curse, Porter. That's obnoxious," he manages to spit out comprehensibly. "You're a good lad, just like Chandar. Speaking of which, I bet he'd most likely beg on his knees to be discharged early tomorrow. He's quite stubborn like the rest of us, which is a good thing. Why not buy the lad something nice?"  
  
"I've got no clue as to what he'd like, old man," I confess as we slowly approach a vivid red light, "Anyways, tomorrow is my birthday, not his." The vehicle halts definitely, and waits patiently for the green signal to flash lucidly. Beyond the smudgy glass of the windshield, a black horizon flecked with faraway constellations conquers the view.  
  
"Well, bloody hell, I don't know. Buy yourself a box of rubber johnnies or something. Rent a hotel with him. I hear you're on leave, right?" he says, still in such a slurred manner that I merely can't take him seriously.  
  
"What are you even on about, old bastard? You're pissed as a newt," I reply, stealing a glimpse at his tattered face.  
  
"Negative, I'm as sober as a judge. Can't be losing touch when it counts, you know what I mean? Because I love me some sensational gossip," he snickers maliciously and triumphantly, having deceived his allies for the sake of gaining information that can be utilized as black-mail. "Now, don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. Because I'll probably forget about it come the morning after."  
  
During the rest of the hour and a half trip, absolute silence replaced idle small talk. Once back at Hereford Base, I hauled Baker's unconscious body to his room. Directly after, I made my way to my own as well. Stamina and strength both exhausted to null and void, I slump onto my mattress. With my face buried in the pitiful excuse for a pillow, I slowly collapse into sleep.   
  
Suddenly, tomorrow is worth looking forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be silent as I wait for you;  
> my heart will be quiet as I wait for you.  
> Only one thing is required  
> to be sitting at your feet,  
> and the more that I am near you,  
> the more the world just seems so plain.
> 
> [Over The Ocean - I Will Be Silent]


	5. The Bed We Messed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter of We Shall Go Always A Little Further.  
> Sorry for such a long wait! The game called life has cheated and I became bereft of free time!  
> Anyway, enjoy your stay. :O)

Six months ago a metal pin hit the ground, a live grenade was hurled, and a raging blast burst the support of the indoor balcony. The steel railing curved and bent from the concentrated heat, and the reflective marble mixed with the dense concrete regressed into deadened ash. The outward impact unnerved and scarred the tactical position so deeply that a stray metal bracket from the ceiling support unhinged, and collided with the back of my neck. And as the sound of detonation split both air and ear, as the gash unwound ever larger and spat out even more thick blood, the mind rattled shut. The neurons in my head barely grazed, and could only process the messages of piercing, cleaving, fiery pain. The fall was high, and the exposed flesh caught pale fire as it descended. Nothing entered the brain--not the shouts of abandoned comrades, not the lingering reverberations of the dropped firearm, not the dreadful mourning of hostages witness to the hellish violence where friend and foe were indistinguishable. I slept in a battlefield draped in sunrise unsoundly, and woke up once more into detritus, distress and heartache.

And I still remember, even half a year later, every detail: the verdant grass and knee-high weeds, the overlapping swatches of cloud and sunbeam, the parked cars, the evacuated houses, the narrow street, the dark, pebbled sand. However, the bedlam that followed, well, that’s another thing. These lucid flashes visit me nightly, as taxing dreams that petrify me, but, as the whole world turns away, and evening coils back into another solemn corner or grave, I soon stir and kick awake and completely forget. The clutch of trauma and the stink of innocent blood would haunt, yes, but the images would be stored away. Buried, eclipsed. And I am spared from the picture of Chandar, supine and withering. Like a flower planted in a desert. Thrashed by storm, battered by wind, assailed by sun. Fading, weathered, waning, tattered. Like a flower, like a flower. Rooted in place, sifting through my grasp. A collection of petals reduced into a pile of sand.

But yesterday, he blinked awake. And he was laughing, swathed in hospital sheets, dressed in sheer gown and oxygen mask. He was unadorned, and I felt feverish. It was a cruel, disorienting, satisfying feeling. There was vehemence, there was regret. Grasps and caresses. I felt penitence, I felt intrigue, I felt dehydration, I felt buoyancy.

The malevolently beautiful yesterday that was too iridescent and grueling to even comprehend--to even believe in--tugged at my defective memory. Prompted, the near past blooms, along with a surge of conflagration and thaw, infecting my entire anatomy with a fresh and primal kind of anticipation.

I wish for him to come home soon.

So I may confirm with my lips and fingertips once more whether he is real or not.

"Attention all operators from A and B wing, this is a notice for mandatory barracks rotation. Attention all operators from A and B wing, this is a notice--" the intercom speakers blare, replenishing the parched air of the deserted corridors with a mechanical, wave-like echo. For several more minutes the small wall-suspended blocks would clamor out the same advice.

"Hell of an alarm that wretched thing," a banal tone, stale and unenthusiastic in pitch and intonation, remarks of an obvious point. Synchronized with the other SAS operators sharing the same squarish accommodation, he yawns, stretches and commences his step-by-step, colorless routine. I hear my three conscious bunkmates fold their lightweight bed sheets before finally changing into their assigned uniforms.

Prone and unmoved on the flimsy bed’s stone-hard mattress, blanketed thinly and enveloped with drowsiness, I deny the quotidian responsibilities from bugging me. The three-day leave was still in effect, so, willing my ears to go deaf to withstand the relentlessly clanging speakers, I lazily remain in my hybrid state of hollow reverie and lackluster wakefulness.

“Porter disagrees with you, Leland. Just have a look at him,” another voice impairs the stillness of the barracks. “I reckon he’s thinking how the speakers could be a bit louder.”

“Lay off, mate,” I eventually murmur out, weary aggravation lacing my tone. Sadly, the exasperating operator does not seem to have heard, and I sense him casually making his way to my bedside. I turn away from him, judging his infernal face to be too undesirable to behold. But all of a sudden, he reaches out, and proceeds to turn me over like a cadaver strewn ashore, face down and frozen over. The vicious light hits the eye, and in an instant, a loud groan of complaint scrapes my dry lips, abrading the humid air. As soon as my vision's adjusted to the steep sunrise and mechanical gleam, I strain to reveal a vexed glare aimed at the mischievous operator. Sitting upright brusquely, I flare at him, "Garey, you son of a-- I'm on leave."

“On leave my ass. That’s null and void now that Bradley’s extinguished,” he explains, lax and uninhibited. “Anyway, Director Clemens, I’m quite sure, would absolutely love to see you attending the briefing later. On the other hand, _aufregende Neuigkeiten_! We’ll be having some Berliners around, representatives from GSG 9.”

“Foreign assist? Is the rumor about there being a final Verzicht op true?” I inquire with a more lucid voice, as I prop myself up with one elbow and crane my drooping head to his direction.

He grins, and his hands twitch; a restless, reignited murderous intent traces his irises and broken fingernails. “Oh, don’t take my word for it. But I hear,” he leans against the ashen wall, beside the blackening door frame, and feigns a roguish expression accompanied by a delinquent voice, “ . . . the opposition’s not Verzicht anymore.” He then chuckles, lifts his hand mid-air as if to wave goodbye, and picks up his pack. Soon enough he was out the door, gradually sifting through the dense crowd of operators marching from different directions equally carrying bulky baggage on their backs. Leland and Simon follow suit shortly, heading towards the C wing.

I myself start to move. The engines of routine, that's rather rusted and therefore slower than usual, take over my dazed body. Shaking off the leftover evening dew on my lashes, I attempt at complete wakefulness. As the barracks rotation was essentially at random, in the sense that there were no bed or bunkmate assignments whatsoever, being late would drastically be unfavorable. One might end up lodging with a rival or sleeping on a gnarled bed. So I pick up the pace, in the hopes of selecting a quality bed with woolen sheets and a formidable mattress. Mainly for the purpose of sleeping soundly . . . not necessarily for perverted reasons. Not necessarily.

Before exiting, I rip off the old bandages. Underneath my fingertips, the remnants of the gash are still manifest. Such a wretched souvenir.

The narrow corridor do not wind or shine; linear and bleak, it is decked only with doors that rest flat and immersed in the flaky walls, and is illuminated intermittently by motion detector torches that rely on the sway of life. Dirt from outdoor-bound soles cascade onto the ground, and amalgamate into rolling dust bunnies. The C wing is plunged into drabness, boredom and a lack of nurture.

I stop in the middle of the long, insipid hallway. Behind me, the lights attack the spiritless floor. In front of me, a darkness denser than starless nights shows, as in this area of the housing facility the hallways own no windows, thus no natural light or meek spring breeze may touch the overly protected space.

The operators who came before now left the scene hurriedly, scurrying towards the cafeteria on the other side of the building as breakfast would be ending as soon as it started. The schedule is compact and absolute; no space to ponder idly or to catch your breath, but there is a lot of room to grow as an SAS operator. The three-day leave is a mere excuse for me to betray that unendurable suffocation.

I shake my head, nullifying my defeated expression. Clutching the glossy doorknob that reflected nothing but the silver of my glance, I sigh. And during the momentary fragmentation of absolute silence, I doubt, is all the pain I feel superficial? Maybe there really is nothing for me to worry about.

The entrance swings open and I step into the room that’s a consistent replica of my old one. Four single beds in a row against the wall, four minute work tables in between the tight gaps, two sinks on either side of the farthest wall, and compact cabinets for paraphernalia. In the room, everything was of metal, fine and cold. On the right wall, a fossilized window permits ragged gusts of sandy air into the otherwise unspotted room, while its curtains, knotted firmly so that their moth-eaten nature can be concealed, flutter with.

“This space is occupied, yes? _Oder nein_?” a rather restless voice resounds a short distance away from where I am standing. My backpack grazes the door frame as I turn to confront an unknown face. Two unknown faces, to be precise. Their sharply dark gazes contrast their washed out complexions. Both wore casual clothes and shouldered full packs. “Well? What is it, _Kamerad_?” he insists, sounding irked and appearing exhausted.

“Well, for the moment, there’s only me. Come in,” I say, stepping out of the way to allow them into the hollow space. Immediately they manage to subjugate the beds facing the window, farthest from the door. A lusterless exchange of German prevails in the hushed room, and I’m left rethinking my uninformed decision of not taking my foreign languages lessons seriously.

“Care to introduce yourself, _Freund_?” a gentler, more relaxed voice calls out. “I am Kötz, this guy in the bad mood is Brunsmeier. But, if you prefer, you can call us by our first names as I’m sure it is easier to handle,” he chuckles faintly, and I hear somehow in his shallow exhales, fatigue is suppressed by optimism. “So, again, I am Elias. And that is Dominic.”

“Porter. _Sehr erfreut_ . . . to meet you,” I pause mid-sentence to rekindle my translation expertise, but end up saying it in English regardless. A self-conscious smile plays with my features.

He chuckles, more vibrantly this time, with cheeks tainted a pale rose. Amused, his voice echoed even more sympathetically, “ _Gut_. You tried, that is what matters,” he exhales, his nonchalance salient. As he held his hand out for me to shake, he opens his mouth once more to inquire, “So, will you be joining us for breakfast, Porter?”

Although the lighthearted chatter was driven by good intentions, in my periphery, I feel a glare sting my shadow.

 

* * *

 

Polished trays, drained glasses and rectangular plates scatter all over the bleak blue surface of the oval table, and underneath it is the rhythmic, nervous tapping of index finger upon thigh. I was waiting, or maybe, expecting for him to arrive very soon despite him mentioning nothing of the sort yesterday. A maddening clutch of anticipation squeezes my lungs, and I sigh. The crowded cafeteria’s humdrum noise coalesces into white, incoherent vibrations, bouncing off of walls and, whilst dispersing, loses definition. And I hear only what I’m thinking about as well as the pronounced clanking of silverware against dish.

However, as a heavy but amicable pat on the back pulls me out of the anxiety doused reverie, the universal racket turns disparate, and I hear Baker’s voice exclaim, “Aren’t I right, Porter? I know it’s bad to talk ill behind people’s backs, but, to be frank, the bloody shit had it coming, yeah? He was so high on our cremated fucking ashes,” I merely stare, appearing half-alive and half-drowned in some inescapable mud that disables me from hearing or speaking. And Baker, sitting to my right, waiting impatiently for my answer, exasperatedly adds, “Oh, come on, lad. Stop looking so sour. You’re getting us down. What’s the matter?”

Processing what he had said clearly, I formulate a comprehensive response, inclusive and direct.

 _I want to see him so badly._ That seems about right.

“Didn’t get enough sleep last night,” I reply with a voice honed like blade, cutting through the gaps of silence diligently.

“Don’t kid me. None of us here gets enough sleep. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, lad! Have you forgot?” Baker lets out a laugh, unstrung and thunderous, and the others round the table join in easily. The brand new teammates, Elias and Dominic, as well as a familiar face, Cowden. So, I chuckle, too, insincerely, bitterly.

Because I can’t share what sort of thoughts I’ve been having, can I? So, better to fill in the blanks with more dumb, artificial noise. “Clever, old man. But to be frank, I now think Owen was right about that being an old lie,” I recite with an anesthetized tone, empty and gradually retreating into daydream once more.

They laugh and agree and continue on talking about what they were talking about earlier. Once they've turned their heads away, I stand up from my seat, tray in hand, and head towards the sanitary conveyor belt. My steps are abrupt, forgetful of courtesy to company. Several meters away from the round table, I filtered my way through to a short queue, and vaguely I notice Baker still scrutinizing me under an anvil of a gaze. Soon after I’d placed the spotted plate and empty glass on the rolling band stretching towards the kitchen area where it would be scrubbed clean and swiped dry, I realize Baker is excusing himself from the carefree discourse, and is approaching me. With an expression I have never witnessed before. And I cannot completely comprehend it. His leaden gaze is mellow, complementing his also temperate, timid smile. Much closer now, he halts, and though his wrinkles seem more apparent, an immortal shadow contours his face. “He’s not here yet, huh?” with arms crossed, he mutters quietly, looking me straight in the eye, “You worry too much, bastard. The lad just woke up for goodness’ sake. Be patient. Might take a while.”

Flung into a state of shock, with a mind bedimmed and overwhelmed, I accidentally blurt out, “I want to see him. I mean-- I’ve waited such a long time.”

We stood at the closed doors to the kitchen area, a couple of steps away from the rest of the occupied tables, hearing our low discussion exclusively. “We all waited. But, bloody hell, Porter! Aren’t you a needy one!” he jokingly replies. His soft laugh is not convincing, not impenetrable against melancholy. After the air’s infused with a short-lived silence, he decides to confide sternly, “Haven’t you already loved someone else before? I vaguely remember a girl named Margot or Marie that you mentioned in the past. Well, my point is that: nothing’s enough. Nothing is ever enough, so . . . just do your best. Do whatever’s required of you. And maybe he’ll do the same.”

Maybe, he says, landing his cordial hand on my stiffened shoulder. The only thing that I can manage is a faltering sigh, a reddened face, and a tilt to the opposite direction to avert his burdensome, observant eyes. Bashful and quiet, I absorb his words reluctantly, allowing the sense that he made to set in comfortably in my head. I wished for him to forget about what he saw or heard the night before, but at the same time, his helping me out of the rubble of a mind that I currently have--I was grateful for that. “Please, just forget about it, old man,” I breathe out feebly, pretending to be unmoved by sheepishly scratching the back of my head.

“Let me see. You owe me some three bottles of bourbon then. And a box of Heineken,” he chuckles, unabated and open. Then he lowers his eyes, criticizes his blemished boots, or perhaps, scans his ungroomed and serrated fingernails. His gaze is uninhabited, diffused so that it cannot have a singular focal point. “Look here, I’ll be serious for a rare moment. Operation Krasnaya Assist was a horrific shit-show. You were Captain, but you’re not at fault. Don’t think that if you hadn’t done this or that, he wouldn’t have had suffered like that. Don’t wage that sort of battle in the mind.” He raises his head; the shadows play with his fading colors, his muffled gray hair and waxen skin. And his weighty gaze shackles me down, forces me onto the ground to be petrified and intent to whatever he’s unfolding. “I don’t think sending him out there, treating him for what he is--what he chose to be--is wrong. It’s not a case of right or wrong even, it’s just natural, you know what I mean. There’s no exceptions on the field, right, lad? All is fair out there; glory and blood go hand in hand. We all know this. He knows it. I know it, _agonizingly_ . . . It’s no use, dreaming of a past you can’t alter, fantasizing about a present you can’t have. And, I’ll be honest, Porter, you’re a dear chap of mine, I don’t like seeing you torturing yourself like this. You look as if you’re experiencing something worse than the RTI exercises.”

I glance at him, alarmed, perturbed. Why talk about this now? Six months passed, six months smoldered, flickered, burned out with no mention of the operation whatsoever. Even Chandar became a sensitive topic. But now he’s supposed to hold my hand throughout this whole psychological ordeal, this sentimental enigma, this maddening love, this gut-wrenching remorse?

I regurgitate a shaky sentence out myself, “I don’t need-- I know all that already. I’m not--” A defeated expression spoils my calm. “Chandar says it doesn't matter,” I say, lips drained of blood, cheeks pale as an opened palm. And I realize how much it hurts, how it still seems unjust for me, and how the old man is right. I still am rolling around in the muck, lashing out at my past self, aching because of superficial things. A grating feeling tries to claw itself out of the dome-like ribs that house a now angry and terrified heart. A voice attempting to confide drags its nails along the fragile walls of my lungs, but I remain silent, I smother it, swallow it, and its acid foam froths and blazes at the pit of my stomach.

In my head, it’s as if his forgiveness is something I don’t warrant.

“Believe in him then.”

The intercom speaker’s robotic pitch overhead incises the large hall’s monotone droning. Instantaneously, the cafeteria chatter is subdued by the sudden announcement: “Personnel operating or have operated on Victory objectives, proceed to Conference Hall 5. Personnel operating or have operated on Victory objectives--”

With hunger and thirst satiated and quenched, the seven four-man squads who have been involved in Verzicht projects march out of the dining area. The blended, symmetrical consonance of the heavy, dusty boots’ rigid stride fill the hollow hallways. The hollow hallways unmarred by a certain silhouette.

The steep steps of the main stairs lit by the occasional ground lamp glow morosely; shifty, fitful shadows take shape, slide against concrete, phase out, vanish, and are reborn once more.

Then seconds recede, and passing time dampens the atmosphere, before finally, the trail of operators reach the tall doors to one of the bigger conference halls that can welcome more than fifty people at a time. Now, pushed by two volunteer recruits, the double doors unwind inward as a metallic growl resounds from the unoiled hinges. Upon opening completely, a blunt, tepid air tousles innocent hair backwards. A foreign figure, with a face too young for the casket but too old to live ostentatiously, lingers in the farthest corner of the expanse; once he became conscious of the audience’s punctual arrival, his statue-like stance is shaken awake, and steered with a practiced sophistication. A refined manipulation of limbs, a strict posture, an austere moss green gaze, inexorable, unwavering and exacting. The new Director stood on the scarcely raised, narrow platform in front of the hall. An unadorned white wall, adding acute emphasis on his starkly dark formal clothing, stretches behind him. He raises his hand, and without doubt, does an abstruse gesture. A slight wave directed toward us or perhaps the vacant benches lined up neatly in several rows and columns muddles the mind, but everyone interprets it as an invitation to take a seat and have a listen.

The volunteer recruits step out of the space and shut the doors behind them. I drift and settle down on a bench relatively situated in the middle ground, neither too close nor too far.

“Operations Harvest Season, Hunt and Gather, Icarus Eye, and four other foreign assistance deployments; approximately ten months of defiance and hostility against this terrorist group, still, all that aside, somehow you all managed to persist on mispronouncing their name. Let me remind you that we are unlike those other foreign incompetents,” the Director chuckles, derides more like. His stoic air and inelastic manner of moving mismatches his gleeful exhale, and he somehow achieves seeming like two people at once sharing one unswerving body. A cloudy quiet hangs around for some time, and he picks up the dropped attention once more, with a drastically transformed expression of hardness and tenacity, cemented and crystal-like, “ _Vorsicht_. Which means caution, prudence. _For-zicht_. Speak after me, lads, and learn.”

A chorus of the single word rises and wanes. We can feel embarrassment squirm in our veins.

“Very good.” In his tone, low and hidden terribly, is superiority. “Now, all that aside, let me apprise you of the very, very good news, gentlemen. At 22:43 of 7th May, the leader, initiator, kingpin of Vorsicht has been retired,” he abruptly halts his sentence as if foreseeing that an applause would eventually cut him off. As predicted, a generous clap of hands resonates, as a boulder of a burden is  
lifted off of our punished shoulder caps. Finally, we all thought, _finally_.

“GSG 9 dispatched undercover operators to permeate the cell. Details as to how and when are unspecified, however these two mercenaries are among us at this moment, so if you have got any further questions, as the SAS specialty is intensive, expert-level, mind-desecrating interrogation, you’re all free to play! They've got nowhere to run!” he laughs again, scornfully unaware, and everyone in the room is compelled to shake their heads; once he might have had a diplomatic tongue, but as numbing years went by, that carefulness has most likely rolled so far into his system, was digested, excreted, flushed down the swirling exit, and putrefied in a desolate corner in the mire-inhabited sewer system. “All that aside,” his incompatible joviality rings gone and is replaced by rigidity again as he commences anew, “Let us prioritize the brand new task at hand: not only did they eliminate the principal controller of the civilian-hunting circle, the GSG 9 has also tracked a possible supplier or employer. A deeper root has been excavated.” With his sentence finished, and his part fulfilled, his legs swing at a slow place. In due time, he retires into his seat, looking dismal at the very edge of the now unpopulated stage. Another sleight of hand from him, which esoterically signified something close to ‘the stage is yours’, is aimed at the two German operators.

One of them recognizes the gesture and stands up from his seat located at the very front. Dominic is left behind on the long bench, looking around as if to detect a nearby prey, and eventually he rests his eyes on mine. And I smile rather shyly, but before I could receive a reaction, I had shifted my gaze already.

“I am Elias Kötz, representative for GSG 9,” he weaves his arms in front of his chest as he daringly assesses the solemn listeners slowly being calcined by the hot season’s invading heat. “Pardon me, but I will skip the rest of the formalities and cut to the chase. Like the Director said, owing to our decryption analysts, we have uncovered that a larger organization called the White Masks are pulling the strings. Furthermore, we have traced a prospective base of theirs. An illegal biohazardous materials research facility and depot. And it is on English soil,” he stops, not because he wants us to applaud, but so that we may ingest what he was suggesting. As if afraid to offend, he continues with an understanding voice, “Rest assured, there are no implications nor conclusions drawn from us. We all want to save the world after all. And without your help it would not be possible, mainly because we have no jurisdiction to operate independently here and well . . . all that we ask is for you to respect our privacy, no casual interrogation tactics, _bitte_ ,” he gets a slight chuckle from everyone in the room, before continuing, “On to the details then. The pinpointed village is Porton, about 120 or more kilometers from Hereford Base. There are estimated to be seven laboratories, five warehouses and twenty vehicles for transport and transfer of goods. No civilian residential areas have been targeted or inhabited by hostile agents, thankfully. Some remaining Vorsicht members are believed to have sought refuge there. Currently, the hilltop headquarters is under the bracket of a privately owned pharmaceutical company factory. From the files, that is all I can say, all that we know.” Elias withdraws from the spotlight, and rejoins his comrade who greets him sternly.

The assembly of operators engage in conversations centered around the potential raid mission. Dismissing the awakened noise whose volume is rising by the second, the Director advances to the center of the platform. “For a limited amount of time, temporarily, Hereford Base will be GSG 9’s branch nerve center, so please, gentlemen, welcome our guests warmly. And keep your eyes on them,” another remark slips out his papery mouth unchecked. “Adjourned. Disperse,” he terminates the conference, and his face fluoresces proudly, overlooking the scattering crowd.

I stand from my seat, prepared to go about the day normally. Training, training, and more training, disregarding the fact that it is my birthday; the irrevocable routine rumbles persuasively in the exhausted but still fighting body.

“Operation Krasnaya Assist.” My head turns sharply upon hearing the Director speak again. “The Russian-bound mission where the SAS was required to aid in a simple hostage rescue. What an abhorrent, abnormal, unbargained for turn of events that day was,” he imparts, his tone direly somber, precariously hushed, and coupled with his inhospitable expression, like a match, he struck the anxiety within me to flicker diabolically and spread all throughout. “Delta squad. I request a vial of your time. Remain seated.”

The conference hall is abandoned. People’s voices dissolve into the faraway corridors, and vaporize into nothing comprehensible eventually. Like the buzz of insects. Minute, abstract, unnecessary.

Baker, Cowden and I are disbanded, occupying seats from different directions in the open space. With the rest of the pack’s desertion, the air flows less stifled and less obstructed than before. I inhale unhurriedly, feeling the bareness of the large space consciously.

The creeping sunlight shoot vibrant rays, passing through the windows’ spotless glass, and the Director rocks to and fro, waiting for an absolutely still atmosphere. Decisively, he recounts the near past, “Yesterday wasn’t my most punctual. I had an appointment in Moscow. Lasted for several excruciating hours. My secretary and I were surrounded by special forces; we of course thought we were going to be assassinated. Or simply, open-fired on by mischance,” he laughs, high-spirited and gleaming. The three individuals with no other choice but to sit through the extended meeting are in want of escape. “The rendezvous was held at a Spetsnaz advising department, you see. I demanded that to happen. To acquire this.” He clears his throat, and as if tugged on by the leash by his irreverent master, a person of small stature, respectable air and humble appearance reveals himself from the back room hiding behind the leftmost corner of the stage. He emerges with calculated steps, mindful not to trip or swerve, strictly following a set path. In his hand was a miniscule blue storage drive which he then relays to the Director. “Thank you.”

The secretary dips into solitude again, disappearing into an alcove inserted in the walls of the spacious room. As the Director readied an expression eager and ceremonial at the same time like the hybrid that he is, a familiar creak from the old hinges of the double doors echoes audaciously. The Director glances past the benches, the intermittent sun rays, the desert floor, and says, “I assume you are a Krasnaya Assist operative?”

“Yes, Director, sir.”

I free my constrained gaze and immediately I am greeted with a smile, mild and benign. In the corner of my eye, Baker veers his attention away with pursed lips, trying to quell the need to snicker. I grant myself a second, a transient rift in time to process the ethereal physiological reaction that I’m sustaining, and ultimately, I smile back at Chandar. Never mind the restrictively vexing wave of May’s humid warmth, he’s more comparable to the sun.

“Well, take up your place, like your comrades here,” the Director recommends with a sly look, which is the result of him putting on an unachievable mien of conviviality.

Chandar nods deferentially, whilst his luminescent deep lake eyes concentrate on bits of sparkling dust suspended mid-air. He strides, and I follow him with a demanding gaze unrepentantly and meticulously. To my direction, he glides, unhurried and meek and flustered; he bites his lower lip as per usual and unlocks his lips halfway to inhale softly. His motions are smooth, velvety in the crisp air, contrasting the firmness of the stillness, healing the harsh conditions of the conference hall with his affable way of swinging his arms to his side. Bare, unclad hands missing the leather, fire-resistant gloves radiate a brittle but flushed ivory, and I am attacked with a recurring want of holding them in my own, never mind how rough and hoarse my combat skin, my conflict palms. The pine green and pitch black overlapping patterns of his fatigues appear new, unused, untouched by battle. And his hair, his newly trimmed hair. Swept by silky wind slyly, and in an instant, I imagine me pulling him close.

Well, what else? Everything about him is great.

He sits down to my side, near enough for me to hear him whisper _Happy Birthday_ , far enough for the world to stay unaware of how much we wanted to hold each other.

Well, what else?

I take one last glance, and he does the same. He does the same.

And that’s quite enough, so we look away.

“This blue boy. Indeed, this blue little boy,” the Director pinches the tiny storage drive between his index finger and thumb, brandishing it for the audience to behold, “. . . possesses the complete Russian report of a particularly tragic October morning. As you can see, yesterday’s summit was a success on our part,” he breaks off the speech with a designing grin and a brisk inhale. “Shall I summarize and prioritize some points over others? I assume . . . that you’re all familiar of how it happened, how it shivered and fell apart.” He climbs down from the platform, makes his way toward an unoccupied bench. A tired exhale flows out of his system as he takes a seat and crosses his legs.

The attentive listeners, whose stress from that particularly painful juncture in time has been rekindled, shiver in their seats however lukewarm the air that hung and enveloped.

“Two hours prior to your arrival, the train station reeled into disaster,” in the DIrector’s tone is an unflinching undercurrent of severity and thoughtfulness, “Going back a little further in time, the streets were animated; winter markets flanked the station left and right,” a sigh of gloom and cognizance flees from his mouth before he shoots up once more, “And according to the report: Vorsicht poured in, in warm clothing suitable for the agitated weather, concealing their arms. The first batch, showing up much earlier than the succeeding lots, positioned themselves at the solar plexus of the station, their reach extended out into the deepest recesses; their job was to immediately herd the innocents once the first shots echoed after the several police officers’ executions by the assault groups that will duly follow. The second batch arrived by vans whilst the third via helicopters on the roof; these groups donned the conventional modern warfare uniforms, and were tasked two primary objectives: eliminate loitering personnel, in the building and out in the streets; and fortify the citadel. During this time, about twenty minutes into the siege, the regular law enforcement response failed dreadfully so, in response to that inadequacy which resulted to more than twenty police casualties, the chief contacted the specialized forces. Twenty more minutes later, the Spetsnaz approached the scene in an explosive fashion, onboard attack aircrafts and tanks. This showcase of viciousness existed in order to intimidate, as more than fifty hostages were the top priority. Team Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie situated themselves for phase one of Operation Goat-Eat-Wolf. Alpha on their normal positions as reinforcements, Bravo as the main offence measures, and Charlie as the media repellent,” he stops himself from explicating any further, for he knows he will be cut off, he is well aware of how our interest has been spiked uncontrollably, forcefully.

Baker speaks for the rest of us as he strips the air of silence with a tone inquisitive and apprehensive, “What is this? Operation Goat-Eat-Wolf? Team Bravo?” The old man cocks his head towards the three other members of Team Delta eagerly, all of us made an expression constrained and alarmed. “Director, sir, why would they withhold those things?”

The Director does not shift his ponderous gaze away from us, and neither does he let the resolve he shows falter. A trembling breeze from the tree-lined training fields that flies into the cracked windows, accompanies his elucidation, “Because you simply do not need to know.” He pockets the storage drive, and proceeds to clap his hands together as if catching an infuriating fly. “They are certain of your friendly cooperation. There’s no need for further clarification of the gravity of the situation.”

In our stiff seats, we shudder, our bad postures suddenly straighten; uneasiness plagues our eyelids, and a twitching neutral  
expression was all the four of us managed.

“You’re expendable,” asserted the Director almost sincerely, “And because the controlling hands of Spetsnaz did not want to send their own men to die off one by one, they decided to send a communication for a joint operation. A lot of men died, their men. Law enforcement, civilians, special forces, all their people. There’s a need for at least an ambiguous sense of security after the horrific loss of Team Bravo,” a grin takes away his seriousness for a transient moment, “A middle-ground was cemented by the immaterial voices on high. Send in foreign specialized troops to save ours. Lesser casualties on our part, and the blame in case of catastrophe is redirected!” He blinks slowly, shedding away the blindness a stray sun ray caused. Unfinished with his undisguised insults, he exclaims, “You’re tools. Used, rusted, blanched, sent home empty-handed.”

“We are not tools. We are not dogs. This is our job,” I interrupt, tongue doused in fossilized frustration.

However, the Director disregards the growing hostility restraining the surroundings, and endures, “Callsign Fuze was originally a vital element in Bravo. However, following the deletion of Bravo on the stratagem board . . . Delta was assembled. Poor lad. Such a shame about his untalented comrades. And a pity how he was so gravely injured.”

I minutely glance at Chandar, perusing his suppressed reaction. He tensed his jaw, canines against canines. He watches the vapid motions of the Director with flat eyes, neither searching nor scrutinizing.

“According to the report, the explosives planted in the first floor offices were rigged to alert the hostiles of enemy location upon disabling. And as positions were interfered with, plans torn apart, contact with the outside and the inside lost, the lad crawled outward into the light of dawn, reuniting with Charlie to request for reinforcements and medical assistance. He was surrounded, security non-existing, incapacity from blood loss imminent. In the end, although he tried his best, his efforts were futile. The higher-ups, remember, do not want to waste efforts on strangers.” He halts as if a red light manifested in his bipolar extremes-oriented thought process, then he points, his arm outstretched, his index finger exposed. “ _You_. He did it for you. He wanted to save not abandon you.”

He stares at Chandar. And Chandar is taken aback, his breaths occurring at irregular intervals, his hands entangling nervously.

“Well, I’ve been talking a great deal. Anyway, to conclude, I’d like to clarify the reason behind my efforts in obtaining this confidential report, and my sharing of it with you, Delta. The SAS operation report of that particular day lacked and therefore cannot be treated as the all-encompassing, absolute truth, even though that is what undoubtedly transpired--it just isn’t the whole story. The list of vicissitudes is incomplete. Now that you are more equipped and knowledgeable, I am mightily certain that second-in-command callsign Thatcher’s memorandum of severing ties with the Spetsnaz forces is rendered null and void,” the Director yields his imposing demeanor, observing Baker whose expression is overwhelmed and discomposed. “The overlords are not faultless, yes, but they have their reasons. As for the henchmen, some are worth recognition. For now, let sleeping dogs lie,” the Director’s unperturbed face suggests no vulnerability whatsoever, whilst he spoke no frown line invaded his smooth expression. “Dismissed.”

The exhaustive walls of Conference Hall 5, and the external forces that persist in creeping in and affecting the cool atmosphere with humid ruthlessness collapse out of the peripheral view. The seats are made empty, the Director turns the other cheek, the secretary inches out like a mouse, and the double doors motion shut with a full tremor.

The four divides. Two by two. Gestures of temporary goodbyes shift the air.

I ask Chandar where his new room is, and he responds, “I’ve not bonded with my roommates at all, and it’s already that time?” A cruelly lukewarm giggle makes its way into my ear and flutters my mind shut.

I wake up, promenading the lightly crammed halls. Phantasmagorical, I think at first, however I snap out of it and dull the smalltalk with Chandar further. “You were A wing, weren’t you?” I inquire, my voice quaking less and less; the lasting shyness is gradually dissipating. And I am all of a sudden comfortable in his presence however adrift and afloat I feel.

“I was. Now I've got no clue. I just dropped off my baggage at the C wing entrance.” His regally blue irises, elusive and dazed, focus on me momentarily.

We descend the precipitous stairwell side by side, intentionally brushing against one another's shoulders frequently. The palms sweat, the craving worsens, the fingertips redden, the two hearts quicken, the chaos within turns friendly. Though it is difficult to grasp, too convoluted to argue against, we accept the frothing feeling knocking the ribs against one another, vibrating in a manner dissonant and irresistible. I breathe sharply, an underlying itch laces the ends of my phrase, "My place isn't full."

He slows his steps, wavers rather secretively, but I catch it with my keen eyes; dynamic reds ornate his cheeks suddenly as his lower lip flinches as if pricked. "You'd let me stay there?"

"To see you more often, yes. I'd be ecstatic, Chandar," I divulge, genuinely and quietly, as we phase through a hallway lined with unlocked doors and loitering operators. Almost automatically, he exhales a temperate laugh, controlled but still candid, and he grazes my hand with experimental fingers.

We glide through the busy corridors as harmless and unobstrusive as possible, and approach the sharp turn where the entrance to C wing stood. The glass windowed doors fly inward promptly after sensing our arrival, and the familiar bleakness and repetitive nature of the architecture shortly seeps into our vessels, convincing us how being bored and blasé is the appropriate reaction. I notice a knapsack sitting lonely and crystallized on the grim ground, and surmising that the baggage is Chandar's, I jog towards it and sling it around my shoulders. The weight I've accustomed myself to during the rigorous training sessions falls remorselessly on my back. I hold back a pained grunt just to hear him say he wants to carry it himself.

A distant clanging of an indefatigable clock haunts the long hall, alerting chance listeners of the rapid, unrelenting, merciless passage of time and decay. And I contemplate how long it's been since I felt him so near, so material, so attainable.

"Is there only the two of us?" he questions, ardent at first before fluctuating into shy, red-faced disorientation.

I smile, longing to make him more uninhibited whilst around me just like yesterday, the easiest day I've ever lived through. "No. Regrettably so," I confide in a murmur, "GSG 9 representatives from the future raid project will be staying with." I crumble within, the disheartening affliction subjects me to sigh tiredly. I know that it is innately selfish, to want him all to myself, to want to be alone with him, to dream of such a disconnected reality, and yet, here I am, succumbing to childish notions. Courage and greed deluges throughout my limbs as I search for his hand and hold it in mine. Neither wary of nor worried about the trailing side glances of observers or the periodic surveillance cameras.

The quietude of this part of the building allows me to perceive the slightest, most guileless gasp. Chandar assesses his neatly tied combat boots to cope with the abrupt sensation. And I watch him closely: he sighs and shuts his eyes to regain his calm. Raising his head, his hair ruffles mildly, and I notice his lips curling into a hushed yet colorful smile, an enslaving blood-warm rose, "You surprised me, Porter." Like me, he does not concern himself with stray audiences.

I lace our fingers together decisively, assuredly. The touch is everlastingly different, distinct from the blatancy of red-soaked fields, starved exasperation, and mind-numbing desperation. The firmness and tenderness transcends the things I'm used to, and perhaps, I think, perhaps, this is hell. It is sin, satisfying, urgent and conscious. It is diabolical fire, enrapturing, rescinding, taming. This can never be heaven. Trapped in a crossfire of belligerent and friendly friction--that is heaven--that is serene cacophony, incomprehensible thought drowning, where one collapses out of individuality, where one grows wings of adrenaline, descends into tranquil nothingness, and the self is suspended in the air, neither thinking nor blinking. Mind barren, limbs shaken, sweat evaporated, sense of right and wrong blinded. Holding his hand, strolling these compact corridors, locking eyes coincidentally, this is like sailing towards the arched misshapen gates of hell and ultimately sinking into pits of molten woe and infernal passion. It punishes me, in the best way possible. "I'll do this more often from now on then," I say in an undertone, squeezing his hand.

His discreet laugh dissolves into the air. Shifting the conversation, he asks, "Will you tell me which room is your own?"

"C 19," I answer, looking straight ahead. Once two more doors have been passed, we'd have arrived.

The interval of silence is not filled with any more words. However, there came an unspoken, unnamed effervescence startlingly accumulating, spiraling in the stomach. A terrified sort of expectation simmers. Though this nagging sensation pulses anonymously, abstrusely, I think it's shared by the both of us.

I turn the handle, the both of us cross the threshold, and descry the solitude of the feverishly enclosed space. I remind myself, as I observe Chandar unpacking his clothes, that later, we'll be joined by the German operators, but now, we're left alone.

In the straight row of four beds, he chooses the third one next to mine. "I've got to leave in half an hour," he admits as he sits on the foot of the bed, fishing out a small pile of dark-tinted clothing from his bag and resting them flat and pristine on his lap. A small sigh poisoned with disappointment flows out along with a defeated explanation, "I've got a psychological evaluation to attend to." His expression is dim, fading into worry, dancing in the realm of ash and smoke.

"For what?" I question, still on my feet. I recline against the wall and glance down at him. The light inclines downwards, and his stray strands of hair blink brightly. The noise outside dwindles, and our voices seem closer by the second.

"To see if there's something the doctors didn't catch sight of," he confesses, avoiding eye contact. He displaces the hill of tidily folded uniforms on his lap to his side, then, resting both elbows on his thighs and bearing the weight of his head upon interlinked fingers, he hunches his back and looks at me with an upward, saliently blue glance that I can't help but be vanquished by.

"And is there something?" I carefully ask, not wanting to invade sensitive, walled-up affairs, but at the same time, showing my willingness to help.

He shakes his head evidently with peacefully closed eyes. And he tells me finally, in a tone authentic and delicate, "My memory's rather blurred, but I'm alive and well. And I know for sure that I am happy to be here."

I unfold a small, quivered smile. My never retracting, never failing focus on him is apparent, and explains quite well how much I agree with what he'd said.

He starts again, picking up the chores he set aside. Standing from his seat, with a small stack of garments in hand, he motions toward the closet suspended on the opposite wall, the glacially gray closet sitting immobile to my right. Methodically, he separates the different pieces from each other, installing the trousers on the lower section and the shirts on the upper section. I stand, biting my lip, paralyzed, engulfed in the vividly detailed picture of his side profile. His motions are meticulous, mechanical, magnificent, disturbing the chaotically insensible environment plunged in glaring lights, growing shadows, scuttling dust and striking metal smells.

He is done unpacking, and a chip of time still remains for us to toy with. He looks at me, inwardly wondering what else, or what exactly we should do.

"When do you think will the raid op take place?" he floats in front of me, ghostly, surreal.

My eyes flash upwards, and concisely I say, "One or two weeks from now, I reckon." Returning my attention on face once more, I surmise, "You might not be included though. As you're still recovering from the last operation."

"This time, you'll be away. And I'll be the one waiting," he conveys a pitch-black, unassailable reality. A smile, overcast and halfway insincere, plagues his once cloudless expression.

"Will you be able to handle the boredom? The emptiness that comes with?" I betray myself by not thinking before speaking. So, immediately, I counter, with a fainter and tenser voice than before, and movements nervous and fidgety, "Sorry, let's not talk about that."

He approaches me with intricately resolute steps. The already minute distance is evermore contracted, the inhales and exhales are tangible and unified. I lower my gaze, concentrate on a less exhaustive, inanimate object. But I catch sight of his waxen hand diligently searching for mine. "I'll manage." He grabs my hand, our interlinked fingers are suspended in the air, buoyant and winged. "But you know, I have no clue of what exactly I would do if you were to die before me," he rambles on, mourning about such a faraway notion. And instantly, I am reminded how I'm also the same. Hurt by specious concepts, tormented by self-made deceptions, wrung dry by excessive worries.

I lift his chin, and stare at his brightness gradually receding, his cheerful features slowly being dethroned by dejection. "Just don't forget about me, that's all. You don't even have to love me anymore," I jest, a stupid, laughably genuine expression splayed across my face.

He stops to investigate the undercurrent subdued by gurgled out pleasantries, and I merely hope that he'll realize how that sort of hard truth is too hard, too terrifying to process, to rationalize. The murk settles in his lashes, and darkened lids cause what's left of his vibrancy to finally wear off. "Mucking about again, aren't we? Come on, my memory isn't that defective," his weakened voice wafts. Distraught pools of blue, prepared to evaporate and turn into rain or hail any moment now, regards me erratically. He opens his mouth again, tone metamorphosing into something melodiously sad, "And I've loved you," he declares, courageous like an unapologetic sun, ". . . when I was awake, when I was asleep. So how can that work? That won't do. I won't stop anytime soon, Porter."

The beds in my periphery appear ironed. Showered with both natural and mechanical light, the sheets shine, golden and ashen simultaneously. Upon the fossilized bones of the ageing floor, sparkling particles defy the world's stringent laws. In a second, I'll notice the ceaseless dripping of a faulty faucet in the far back that's eerily rhythmic like the precise ticking of a clock.

I gulp, overcome with a dense blanket of dread and disappointment. I can't say I love you back to him, as there's a scathing feeling that I might regret it later on. Much, much later. Once our boots are meant for combat again, once our fatigues are stained with dehydrated exhaustion again, once our firearms are as accursed as our flammable flesh. The cyclical lifestyle that we chose and cannot withdraw from manifests itself.

How do you love an offering, a sacrifice? We're not tools, we're not dogs--we're nothing. We're highly-trained, specialized, formidable champions that still can be substituted, because of our lack of invincibility and immortality. Indeed, there will be others. And he and I, our respective names will end up engraved underneath a piece of poetry I cannot comprehend fully.

I blink, one, two, three times until the continuous and treacherous train of thought is indistinct, indeterminate, deserted. Will away such things that rupture the harmonious framework of the present.

Love him freely.

No matter how excruciating the loss will be. No matter how innumerable the layers and layers of ache that will inexorably pile up upon the precarious heart.

Go on, love him freely.

"It's not like you to be quiet," he tells me, reserved and pondering.

"I'm sorry. You surprised me, Chandar," I confess, anxiety slowly losing its grip around me. I take a deep breath, reconcile with my conflicted self. Washing off the remainders and debris built by agonizing ideas, I reveal a refreshed expression. Chandar notices the small transformation and becomes more eager to hear me reply. And finally, I do not put up a fight and duly acquiesce, I let myself be conquered by something incorporeal tugging at the strings of feeling. Taking one step forward, I ravage the empty space in between. Unwavering, I lean towards him, closer and ever closer. An instant flickers and blazes before our foreheads meet, touch endearingly. Two pairs of eyes unaccustomed to affection and adoration connect. So I choose to close mine, as I profess, "I've loved you for such a long time as well. I was scared to tell. There's an overwhelming amount of priorities, you see, and I didn't want to burden you."

I hear his murmur so sweepingly near I could almost taste its honesty and warmth. Wrapping his arms around my back and clutching the thinness of the camouflage-painted canvas, he tells me, in a whisper as brittle as glass, how I am the most important thing to him. I choke, airways inundated, as it's utterly the same with me; he is the one thing that matters palatially.

Motionless, I'm bereft of reason, depraved of sense. His hand captures the shape of my back, the indents of my spine, with a fluttering, almost embarrassed touch.

I leave my lips to rest on top of his, and wait patiently, saintly. Parting my eyelids slightly, as if waking up from a deep sleep and a pleasant dream, I take notice of his quivering long lashes. I swallow the image of his gaze, mouth and unconcealed arteries; all of his scintillating blues, reds and violets, I inhale.

He kisses me first, caressing my lower lip with saturated softness. My breath hitches, my shadow fluctuates. And I enthrall the moment itself, proliferating my suppressed selfishness, and propelling my controlled yearning. The drenched lips seek shelter from the storms of solitude, and at once find solace in one another, going as far as denying themselves the need for even breathing. The frenzy is soothing and pervasive; kisses transfigure into delightful sweet nothings, whilst cravings convert into uncontrollable fires.

Giving into the compelling sensations convulsing cacophonously at my very core, my hand slithers round his bare neck. I seize him, drag him closer, wrench him towards an inescapable amalgamation raging with a nauseating amount of infatuation and satiation. Underneath my coiled fingertips, his brisk pulse indicates itself meekly, and so, determinedly, I bite affectionately at his already crimsoned mouth. In reply, he mumbles a muted grunt laced with discontent, relaying a complaint on how unfair I'm being, "Don't tease." His heart rate quickens, vibrating livelier than before, and I smile at the thought of exciting him this much.

Warmth smothers our effortless grasps, and the passing seconds are desiccated faster. In turn we move more impatiently, graze against our bodies more thoughtlessly. Lingering worries rendered defunct, outside forces made extinct, fabricated walls torn down. Easily, we surrendered into the heat of May, the blinding lights, and the inviting declarations of love.

It's only the two of us, I remind myself, as I let my tongue toy with his unabashedly. He groans, brazen but still dissatisfied, and he returns the soaked strokes finely, almost beguilingly. His inviolate radiance pours out of his skin and seeps into mine, gracing me with a brand new kind of innocence and naiveté, scaring away the glaciers that have wedged themselves in my bones.

We thaw and bud together, draped over by the unflinching sun. "Come, let's go a little further," the voice I echo out rings atypically, dyed in idiosyncratically manic emotions.

Chandar processes the precipitate suggestion with drowsy eyes. The red residue that's overlaid his luring expression remains pristine. "We have about . . . ten minutes or less, James," he thinks aloud, revitalized.

And that afflicting fact pressurizes the air, compresses us strictly, and we cease being reticent. We shake off the chains dragging our hunger down, relinquish the anchor that keeps us from careening dizzily into waters where we become unsalvageable. We willingly dive, aware of how early in the morning it currently is, and how at any given moment, an operator could storm into the room for a reason. But still, unafraid, and fed up with all the blinding stresses, I continue grazing my lips against his, tracing and etching his smile with avid, desert-oriented heat. The kiss deepens, and sensitivity heightens. I drag the both of us to my neatly adorned bed, and we stagger hopelessly, not knowing what the near future, what the next pulsating seconds have in store.

I throw him onto the bed, he gasps in a way disarming and provoking. I feel devilish, I feel divine; the paradoxically puzzling feeling throbs behind my ribs, sending cryptic reverberations throughout my body. My sense of balance hesitates, glancing downward at his exposed vulnerability, I arch my back, and enclose him. With my arms at the side of his head, I lower myself slowly, and murmur into his ear, "Do you trust me?"

His expression, faded and winded by need, flutters as he nods weakly. And, not a moment later, I untie the seams that held him together, rip apart the blueprints that engineered him to be a disciplined and conditioned soldier. I trace his thighs with a decisive hand, and he expects me to do it a little faster. So I obey his mute desire, by hastily unbuttoning his loose-fitting trousers. Then I hear him say, incoherently at first, "--gether . . . Let's do it together."

He pushes me off as he sits down on the bed lazily. I find my place directly in front of him, the overflowing feeling of belonging strikes my heart. He overlaps his legs with mine, and from here I see him so transparently, every hint of color and fault. Entangled like roots underground, we concentrate on the lack of sunlight, analyse each other's expanding pupils void of lies. I shut my eyes as if to prepare for sleep, but I instead raze his lips greedily. He groans in fleeting intervals, moans in accordance to his thrumming heart. A shade of red that's foreign up until this moment gnaws at his cheeks whilst droplets of sweat glosses his corporeal silhouette. We both are plastered over with a cellophane of sultry desire.

The sound of unzipping renders us both delirious. Our crystal personas are slowly, slowly being shattered. We mirror each other's adamant movements, letting intemperance to further cancel out any melodious thought. Here in shameless dissonance, in foggy perversion, in immaculate entanglement, we found a new kind of solace.

Hair is pulled, shirts are lifted, skin is bared and bitten, and a torrent of warmth floods the room; the misty conflagration misleads the vulnerably smitten eye.

And I'm unable to tell time faultlessly.

"What?" he chuckles unabashedly, the afternoon sun pigmenting his quivering lips a madder red. "What exactly do you mean by that?" he breathlessly questions, getting up from his sprawled position on the conscientiously mowed grass whose green tips are sheening, golden and dewy.

As I had just concluded my daily training, a generous amount of fatigue has settled in my limbs. So, once I had climbed the relatively steep slope of the hill he reposed upon, I quickly fall into comfort beside him, leaving a small space in between us to keep our shoulders from making contact. He trails my movements with an affable gaze independent of pretense. Shifting my gaze straight ahead, I observe how the deserted training fields are curtained with the incandescent rays of the drooping sun. Thin threads of tinted cloud help the frosted moon in pushing away the brightness of day. However quaint the view was from this humble mountain, I turn away my head, and alter my focus. The unwavering gaze lands on him. Since yesterday, I've been trying my best to stop myself from saying it, or even thinking it, because it's humiliating, and maybe even insulting on his part, but I can't help admitting how attractive Chandar is. "Sorry, but yesterday, you were terribly out of it. So as you'd expect, I'm quite concerned."

"I'm alright. Recovering painfully slow though. The obstacle courses are bloody hellish for me. Even the basic warm-ups are excruciating. To be frank, I'm at a loose end here. With nothing else to do but rest."

I exhale an amused laugh, "Nothing at all? Sit-ups, sprints?"

An insecure expression frustrates his beaming countenance, as he says further, "Or push-ups. My arms are too weak to support my weight, and I can't risk falling on my sutures."

"And you call yourself an SAS operator. Where's the creativity? Do it on your bed, bastard!" I chuckle, gentle like the passing breeze that carried bronzed autumn paraphernalia.

He reluctantly starts to snicker, and in an instant he joins me in a harmony of soft laughter.

The air, stiller than before, begins to blush a corpse-like blue. We treat this as a signal to retreat back into the barracks where our shivers shall halt.

I was first to stand from my seat and dust the earth's remnants off of my clothes. His small form slouched upon the low alpine scene, shuddering submissively to the diverging waves of bitter wind, quietly shifts. I stare fixedly at Chandar and memorize effortlessly his evasive outlines unintentionally accentuated by the elucidating moon.

He leaves his verdant throne, his head lowered and reserved. But that's insufficient. Though his eyes are astray, he's got no choice but to catch a glimpse of my outstretched hand. Raising his head, he peers into my drab gaze, in turn I smile at him, perhaps a bit too affectionately. Nevertheless, he takes it, with an expression as tranquil as the dulled sky.

I feel a comfortable sense of belonging ripple. As we touch, as we heave, as we depend on each other, feverish and yet still wintry, a loss of equilibrium made our legs stutter. He presses against my chest involuntarily, his staggering ankles confronted with uneven terrain are to blame, so I catch him, putting my hand against his back. Once more, perhaps a bit too tenderly.

He halts, engulfed in scorching reds, to stare and affirm, "Porter, I'm so close," he stutters, faltering so apparently underneath my wet fingers. "Fuck. James, I'm--" he pants lovingly, with a quavering voice in symmetrical harmony with the noises of my own maddened exhales, and subsequently beholds me, with irises resembling seas, and a parted mouth soothed with the balm of Eros and Agape.

I hear the faint creaking of the bed, witness the ever shifting sheets.

The air grows denser, more zealous, and smells of our mixed perfumes. Vapid walls gape and afterwards cave in together with the fragile floor of mock concrete, as our visions slowly fail to distinguish reality and fantasy from memory and reverie.

Movements calm, strokes pacify. We're so agonizingly near.

In between gasps, he divulges, "I want to come with you."

The steel frame of the bed palpitates. Our lungs cancel as our blood smolders. And leaking out of the flesh-toned rifts, a surge of satisfaction rushes through, streaks our abdomens with a thermal, worthwhile white. Spastic and sticky all over, we crumble upon the creased sheets of the small bed.

I return the nonplussed gaze, and question him, with worry impenitently decorating my low tones, "You alright? Are you feeling a bit light-headed?"

He takes a step backward, flattening the pliant blades of the grass bed, composing himself hurriedly, and neglecting the evident colors mounting on his cheeks. "Yes, no," he insists, trying to regain resilience, "Sorry."

The growing distance shrinks away again as I approach him, overt and assertive. I lift my hand decisively, and suspend it mid-air momentarily before ultimately letting it fall atop his head. Underneath rigorous fingers, his slightly tousled hair feels sublime, so, unknowingly, I comb his soft strands sideways.

"And what about that psychological evaluation?" I question, eyelids burdened with the need for rest.

He is dazed, glazed in flushed afterglow, as he replies powerlessly, "I've forgotten about that."

I unlatch from his embrace, in brisk and sharp motions, to get dressed straight away. "You can't be late. Get a move on, Chandar."

He laughs, shrugging off the haze, "Alright, alright." Instantly, he's on his feet, straightening his spent fatigues. "Take me there. That psychiatric office's whereabouts has slipped my mind."

The unlocked door hovers before us threateningly, but we brave through it together. Glaring at our backs is the fourth bed, disheveled and aromatic. Blatantly unconcerned about secrets susceptible to being unraveled and weaved into threads of gossip that would shape the atmosphere around us, we marched into the corridors, unstained by sun ray, heads raised, hands held.

He walks in front of me, and I observe his broad back and small ears. The afternoon's departure is evident, as his skin reflected only the chalky white of the glinting moon. I hear his hardened soles crush the crisp grass, and I follow him, attentive and rather frustrated. He damages the helpless silence with a voice too tender for me to manage, "What was that, Porter? You like me or something?"

I swallow the chill of the air, and in turn my lungs heave for more. His eyes are fixed on the slanting path ahead lined with crystallized lush and useless flowers, and I'm unable to further analyse what expression he was making. "Sorry," I begin in a terse murmur, "Don't know what came over me."

He grants me a cursory glance, his primary focus still on the ill-defined corridor. "Don't worry. I won't tell," he teases, his playful radiance infecting me.

The arresting walls of the five-story building hinders the view, and eventually blocks out the heavenly stretch of bruised blue and its gleaming flecks.

The polished wooden frame of the imposing door peruses its approaching visitors, and the lamp overhead streaks the ashen ground a softened gold.

He turns to face me, wave-like and inspiring. "I'll see you later, Porter," he moves his lips as his stupidly magnetic voice dances outward. Soon, he's already disappeared into where he's supposed to be, and I find myself trying to endure his temporary absence.

The heart I've trained to desensitize beats. For him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whispered something in your ear  
> It was a perverted thing to say,  
> but I said it anyway,  
> made you smile and look away.
> 
> Nothing's gonna hurt you baby  
> as long as you're with me, you'll be just fine.
> 
> [Cigarettes After Sex - Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby]


End file.
